


Aftershock

by Scribblue



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America - Freeform, Iron Man - Freeform, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Romance, Stony - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21975385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribblue/pseuds/Scribblue
Summary: It's been a few months since the events of Endgame. Tony Stark managed to survive the snap with the help of his fellow Avengers, but it came with a price; his arm, and the knowledge that he can never bring back his Pepper--taken from him years before. Tony has since moved away from the city and gone into a deeply reclusive state, broken only by Steve showing up on his front door, rekindling a fire in both of their hearts that they'd long since attempted to repress...
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 39
Kudos: 99





	1. The Unexpected Guest

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────  
_Tony_

When I open my front door, the last person I expect to see is Steve “Captain America” Rogers. Well, maybe not last, but the odds are pretty damn low. His broad frame fills my doorway, and his dimpled smile fills my chest with warmth and dread. It’s a harsh reminder of why I haven’t reached out in months.  
“Nat wanted me to check on you,” he says. No hello, straight to business.   
I try to stifle my laugh. “Bullshit. Wanna tell me why you’re really here?”  
Steve raises an eyebrow.  
“Nat checked up me last week. See, I have this little thing called a cell phone, maybe you’ve heard of it?”  
“Alright, alright.” He exhales slowly and pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a moment to collect himself before he meets my eyes again. “I wanted to check on you.”  
I wonder if he can tell that my pulse just quickened, or that my cheeks have taken on a touch of color at the blunt sincerity in his words. “Consider myself checked,” I say. “I’m fine, Cap. This civilian’s not in danger, you can take the night off.”  
“I haven’t heard a peep from you in months, Tony. Not many have. Am I wrong to be worried?”  
“Obviously.”  
He doesn’t respond to that, giving way to a tense silence. I’m not a fan of tense silences. They make me…tense.  
“Did you drive all the way here?” I ask.   
“Well, I didn’t walk.”  
“Technically, you could’ve.”  
“Funny.”  
I shift my weight from foot to foot, visually contemplating the sequence of bad decisions I’m about to make. I invite Steve to step inside with a flick of my head and, to my surprise, he accepts. I close the door after him. “Can I get you a drink?”  
“I’m good.” He eyes my arm, or at least the place my arm should be. I’m only sporting the shoulder piece to my prosthetic. “Is…are you…”  
“Upgrades,” I offer. “I was actually in the middle of working when I was so rudely interrupted. Wanna see?”  
I don’t wait for an answer, instead pushing past him and heading for my workshop. I don’t know what I’m doing, but Steve’s trailing behind me, so I guess I have to commit.  
“You know, I wouldn’t be as worried about you if you hadn’t moved out to the middle of nowhere,” he says. “Can I ask what inspired that?”  
“Panic. Hysteria. A healthy dose of depression,” I say. Steve doesn’t seem amused by this. As he shouldn’t, I suppose; it’s only partially untrue. “Look, I needed to get away for a bit. Figure shit out. Is that good enough for you?”  
“Do you like it here?”  
“What, are you a realtor?”  
“No, I just…”  
“Take a seat, Mr. America.”  
He opens his mouth to say something else, seems to think better of it, and plants himself in my high-backed office chair. I turn back to my work, but can’t focus. His eyes are boring a hole into the back of my skull. Sitting with that damn perfect posture, a hand on each knee, index fingers tapping with restless energy. I put down my tools. “What? There’s a staring fee, you know.”  
He nods his head towards my arm, which is disassembled on my desk. I’m recalibrating the palm repulsor, since it’s a little stronger than my left, and the last time I tried flying it looked like I was wearing a sneaker on one foot and a stiletto on the other. I mean, if you’re gonna go stiletto, you gotta go all the way.  
“You’re the only person I know who would put blasters in their prosthetic,” he says.  
“I mean, calling them ‘blasters’ is a little diminutive, don’t you think?” It’s equipped with fully functional heat-seeking lasers, a pulsar ray, and a few other tricks I’d rather keep hidden up my metal sleeve, mostly because Steve would give me a whole spiel about “safety” and “regulations”. Yawn.   
“You’re going to shoot yourself in the face one of these days if you’re not careful.”  
“Thanks Mom, I’ll keep that in mind.”  
Steve makes a tutting sound but smiles anyway. I decide to omit the fact that I shot a hole into my bathroom ceiling this morning while brushing my teeth.   
I clear my throat. “Well, if you’re gonna loiter, come make yourself useful.”  
He rolls over to me. I have to say, I kind of enjoy watching America’s favorite poster-boy scooting his way across my floor. He folds his arms across my work table and peers at my organized chaos with that indifferent yet slightly disapproving expression of his, and asks, “What’cha need?”  
I swat his elbow. “First, you’re very cute in your highchair, but I’m gonna need you to stand up.”  
He complies and I hand him a screwdriver, which he inspects as if he’s never seen one before. “Huh.”  
“Huh? What ‘Huh’? Didn’t they have tools in the 40’s?”  
“I just expected it to be…fancy,” Steve says. “You know, high-tec.”  
“It’s a screwdriver, Cap. If you think I’m gonna trust you with my ‘fancy’ stuff, I’m taking you to the hospital for head trauma,” I reply, and then gesture to my hand that’s sitting on the table. “There’s a plate on the base of my wrist that I need you to unscrew. I’d do it myself, but I’m working with…minimal assets, here.” I do a singular jazz hand.  
He exhales a short laugh. “Understood.”   
I scoot to my left, allowing Steve to take my place. He picks up my hand gingerly and turns it to examine the base. I lean over his shoulder. “You know, we’re technically holding hands right now.”  
“Tony.”  
“Yes dear?”  
He side-eyes me. “Can we focus? Which panel?”  
I reach around him to point at the screws, and he dutifully gets to work. It doesn’t take him long. He manages to pop open the panel, revealing an intricate system of wires, sensors, and a couple override buttons. “What now?”  
“You’re good, I think I’ll keep you. How do you feel about assistant? Maybe errand boy?”  
“ _Tony_.”   
“Right, point the base towards me and pass me those wire-cutters. No, no, not—Yes, there you go. Thanks doll.” I delicately maneuver the cutters through the mass of tiny wires until I dig up an orange one, which I snip with some gusto that’s only dampened by the possibility of a mansion-wide explosion. So, carefully. I cut it carefully. I nod at the panel on the counter, and Steve gets to work putting it back together. “Don’t worry, cap, I won’t need your help much longer. Once I master the blueprints for this prototype, I’ll be able to mass-produce it. We’re talking an arm in any color of the rainbow, or maybe an arm with all the colors of the rainbow, if I’m feeling festive. How do you feel about holo?”  
Steve stops for a moment to blink at me. “Can’t say I know what that is.”  
“Uncultured. Who even let you in here?”  
A smirk, now, pulling up the corner of his mouth. “You did,” he says.  
“Damn. Uncultured _and_ a smart-ass. I’m revoking my job offer.”  
Steve finishes setting the panel back in place and passes my hand back to me. “I’m hurt,” he says.  
“You should be; I am. It’s a shame to lose such capable hands.”  
He hesitates. We lock eyes, the prosthetic still suspended between us, his fingers brushing against mine. He tightens his grip for a brief moment before releasing both of my hands and tucking his own into his jacket pockets. He offers a slight nod that I can’t even begin to decode.  
“Right,” he says. “Well, if you’re good…I should probably get going.”  
“Right,” I parrot. “No, yeah, Grandpa needs his beauty rest. Wouldn’t want to keep you up past…” I check my watch, “10pm.”  
“Got big plans tonight, Tony?”  
“I could,” I say, partially under my breath, but I can tell by the slight tilt of his head that Steve caught it. He seems contemplative, like he’s weighing his options. Or perhaps doubting my sincerity.  
“Goodnight, Tony.”  
“Right.”  
He steps out of my workshop and waves on his way up the stairs. I salute in response.   
And then I’m alone again.

⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅ 

  
I’ve been thinking a lot about being upfront with Steve, and it sounds great in theory, but I’ve also been thinking about just how drunk I’d need to be to make that happen, and how big of a chore that would be, and how it’s actually not so great in theory after all.   
Things have been different since we defeated Thanos. Well…if I’m being honest, things have been different for a lot longer than that. It’s been a long handful of years. Lots of hot-faced sobbing. Lots of walking around like an empty suit. Lots of public appearances that went south. Regrets piled up like the laundry I still haven’t been able to bring myself to do….God, I even bought a bunch of plain T-shirts and underwear in bulk when all of my remaining clothes failed the sniff test.   
I watched her die. One of Thanos’s lackey’s speared her straight through the heart. That day, I could’ve sworn it kept going straight through mine.   
My Pepper.   
Taken from me, so prematurely, as we dangled off the precipice of our next big life decisions. If I think about it for too long, I still feel the smoldering hands of anger tearing away at my chest, up my throat, pulling everything inside me taut.   
When I exhale, it dissipates.  
Time is a cruel yet merciful mistress. She marches on, not caring for your wishes, knowing that it’s all you can do to run after her. Forcing you to mend yourself along the way, to turn your head towards the future. But when I turn my head towards my future, I don’t know what I see. Is it Steve that holds the key? If I look into his eyes, will I see the answers to all my deepest questions staring back at me? Or am I just desperate to fill this void with something other than my own anxieties?  
I finish assembling my arm and stretch it out, rotating it gently until the shoulder clicks into its proper place. It’ll do for now. I check the time; it’s only been an hour since he left.  
It’s quiet. Not silent, thanks to the AC/DC playing on low volume over my bluetooth speakers, but there’s a distinct lack of…Steve. Of anybody, I suppose. He’s the first person to come over. Not that people haven’t asked to see the place, but I’ve kept my distance since the final snap— the one that managed to fix everything except myself— and I’ve grown used to my heightened independence.  
Goddammit. He comes over for fifteen minutes, and suddenly he’s introduced loneliness into the equation.  
For a moment, I consider calling him, asking him to meet me somewhere, talk, spew all my problems onto a willing ear. Just a moment, though.   
I hit a button on the wall and watch my garage door creak open as I step onto my assembly platform, allowing myself to be swaddled in the only constant in my life. I need a test run. I need some air. I need to get a fucking grip.  
I shake my hand out. The repulsor springs to life. I lift off of the ground slowly, and to my relief, evenly. The energy distribution is perfect.   
“Alright, let’s see what we can do,” I say under my breath.  
“I’m ready when you are, sir,” F.R.I.D.A.Y chirps.  
My helmet snaps closed over my face, I tilt forward, and blast out of the garage. Fast and low to the ground at first, and then up, up, up, into the clear night sky.  
The moon is almost full overhead, filling the valley I’ve nestled myself into with a wash of blue light. I can see nearly everything, though there’s not much to see beyond miles and miles of snow-frosted trees and the dirt road that leads to my house. I follow that road until it branches onto the main drag, and then keep going. Past more trees, towards the mountain.   
I pivot upwards even more, propelling myself towards the stars that aren’t so unknown anymore. There are times that I want to keep going until I hit the moon, and then farther still. Back into the cosmos that care less about you than time itself does. Maybe I left a piece of myself out there, and it’s just a matter of finding it. Bringing it back. At the very least, I could get lost and not have to care.  
Not tonight.  
I kill the thrusters, spread out my arms, and fall. Backwards, spread-eagle. Eyes closed. Letting the wind pass through me, around me, whispering sweet nothings in my ears.  
“Tell me when, F.R.I.D.A.Y.”  
“800 feet until impact.”  
I reengage my repulsors and spin to right myself, rocketing forward in a horizontal path once again and knocking some snow off of the treetops as I pass by.   
I pull up to a stop on top of Mount…I actually don’t remember what it’s called. I’ve been calling it Iron Mountain for quite a while. Small mountain, impressive view. I open my helmet, taking a deep breath of the cutting night air, and release it in a visible cloud. I dust some snow off of a rock and take a seat. There I remain, scanning the valley, the roads, the twinkling lights of the nearest city in the distance, until I can’t feel my face anymore and need to fly home.  
Well, at least my numbness isn’t chest-exclusive anymore.


	2. The Completely Normal Christmas Party

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────  
 _Steve_

It’s an unassuming envelope, addressed simply to _Steve_ in sharpie. I stare at it for a moment. The handwriting is familiar, but I don’t let myself jump to conclusions. At least, not until I get inside, slice it open with my fingernail and come face-to-face with a gaudy Iron Man themed birthday card. I flip it open. Tony’s scrawled a note: “You’re cordially invited to a kick-butt Christmas/housewarming party on the 20th. Be there, be square. Oh wait, that’s not a threat to you, is it? Hah. Anyway, you better be there, a-hole. Party starts at 6PM. Presents not required, but I wouldn’t complain…. ;)”  
“Kick-butt” was originally “Kick-ass”, before it was messily scribbled out. I shake my head.  
I can’t for the life of me figure out what changed his mind about having guests over at his new house. Though, I can’t pretend I understand any of Tony’s decisions. That man is an enigma, with a sharp tongue and a penchant for flirting. Plus an ego big enough to fill up one of those suits of his. Sometimes I wonder what he actually sees when he looks at me.   
The only thing I do know is that I’m going to this party. Morbid curiosity, maybe.   
The idea that maybe I just want to see his face again pops up in the back of my mind. I push it down, save it for later. Tony’s been taking up residence in my thoughts for far too long already, I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he keeps me up at night. I like to think I’m above that.  
Even though I’m definitely not.

⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

  
I knock on his door at 6:30. Normally I’d be on time or early, but this is one party I don’t want to be the first guest to; the whole thing has got me on edge.   
It’s not Tony that greets me, it’s Bruce. In all his green glory, all smiles, wrapped up in a red Christmas-themed cardigan that’s got reindeer on it. He’s pinching a beer between his fingers. “Steve! Hey, buddy!”  
“Hey, Bruce,” I say, giving him a hearty smack on the bicep. “How are you?”  
“Oh, can’t complain. Come in, come in.”  
I comply, wiping my feet on the welcome mat that definitely wasn’t there last week. It looks like something a wine mom would buy— if only for the fact that it says “wine mom” on it.   
“It was a surprise to get the invitation, huh?” Bruce says. “Ol’ Tony’s been pretty quiet these last few months. I was beginning to think I’d never see the place.”  
“Heh, yeah,” I say. “Right.”  
Bruce strays from my side, giving me a pat on the back on his way past. I nod.  
The entrance hall bleeds into a large living room, a kitchen, and a stairway to the second floor. It’s a rustic house, built from sturdy oak beams, and Tony’s populated it with his minimalist furniture. There’s a good amount of people here already, filling out the space. There’s Bruce, now idly mingling in the kitchen with Scott and Doctor Strange, who’s practicing witchcraft to refill his drink. There’s Wanda and T’challa, sitting on the stairs, engaged in idle conversation. Sam and Bucky sit across from each other on the couch, and they wave when I enter. I gravitate towards them. They both stand up to greet me.  
“The man, the myth, the legend,” Bucky says, giving me a firm handshake that ends up in a hearty one-armed hug.   
“Buck. Great to see you.” And it really is, though it’s difficult to mask my surprise. I didn’t expect Bucky to get an invite, all things considered, but I suppose Tony is just full of surprises these days.  
I turn to Sam, who pats my shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Cap.”  
I smile. “You too, Sam.” My gaze wanders back around the room. “Where’s Tony?”  
“Basement, with Nat and Rhodes.” He points to the back of the room. “It’s the door on the other side of the staircase.” He grabs my arm before I go, and I turn to face him again. “I gotta warn you, though, he’s in a…strange mood tonight.”  
“Stranger than usual?”  
It’s sort of a joke, but Sam nods solemnly.  
Alright, so the knot in my stomach is justified. Noted.  
“Thanks for the heads up,” I say.   
With that, I follow his directions down some rickety wooden steps and into a cement-floored room, lit by a few incandescent overhead bulbs. It’s sparsely decorated; there’s a large circular rug, a few armchairs and a couch facing a flatscreen TV, some unopened cardboard boxes, and a bar on the other side of the room that Tony, Natasha, and Rhodey are currently congregated around. Nat sits on a barstool, nursing some sort of cocktail, and Rhodey’s leaning against the counter. Tony stands behind the bar, mixing something. His face is already flushed with the warmth of a few drinks. He looks up when I enter, and I swear his smile falters for just a moment. Then its back to beaming.  
“Cap! You son of a bitch, you made it! Come, come, let me make you a drink,” he shouts, ushering me over.   
Nat turns to face me. “Welcome to the party.”   
“Hey, Nat.”  
“What do you want? Something sweet? Dry? Packs a punch?” Tony doesn’t give me much time to respond before adding, “You know what, I’m just gonna surprise you. Don’t worry, you’ll love it.” He turns to the wall of liquor and rummages around until he settles on a large bottle of something I can’t see the label of.  
“What made you change your mind?” I ask.  
“About what?” Tony pops the cork. It goes flying over Rhodey’s head, who scrambles to cover his face.  
“Jesus, man, be careful,” he says. “I don’t feel like losing an eye tonight.”  
“Ah, shit, sorry. But I mean, who’s ever really ready to lose anything, know what I’m saying?” Tony laughs while waving his prosthetic hand. Rhodey and Natasha share a conspiratorial look.  
“The party, Tony,” I say.  
“Pardon?”  
“What made you change your mind about the party?”  
Tony finishes mixing my drink and slides it across the counter. I manage to catch it before it crashes to the floor. “Well, you know, Cap, I’ve been thinking. A lot.”  
“Yeah?” I say, arching an eyebrow. “Come to any conclusions?”  
“Nothing matters!” he exclaims through a toothy grin, spreading his arms wide and nearly knocking down a couple bottles in the process. “Who fucking cares? Happy holidays, life’s a bitch, why not celebrate?”  
“Oh…Okay…wow. Thats— ”  
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some hors d’oeuvres to grab from the fridge.”   
Tony jogs upstairs, leaving me alone with Natasha and Rhodey. As soon as the door closes after him, I let out a drawn-out breath and pull up a barstool between the two of them. “Sam warned me he’d be bad, but I didn’t think he meant existential-crisis bad.”  
“He’s been alone for a long time,” Nat offers.  
I take a sip of my drink. It’s a little too fruity, with a bitter aftertaste that kicks me in the throat.  
“Maybe,” Rhodey says. “But I don’t think that’s all there is to it. Last time Tony was like this, he was actually— like, literally— dying.”  
“He hasn’t talked to either of you about what’s going on?”  
Rhodey shakes his head.   
Nat frowns into her glass. “We’ve all lost so much. But Tony…I think he’s had the hardest recovery.”   
“So what should we do?”  
“Nothing,” she says, shoving her barstool back from the counter and standing up. “We enjoy the party and act like everything’s fine, if that’s what Tony needs from us.”

⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

  
I spend most of the night hovering just out of reach, and Tony spends most of the night avoiding me. Dodging eye contact. Mingling with everyone except me. Deflecting any subject matter that borders on serious conversation.   
I try to enjoy myself, I really do. I talk to Bucky for what must be over an hour, leaning against the wall near Tony’s potted ficus, fondly recounting tales from our youth. I listen to Bruce monologue about his latest scientific endeavors and nod whenever he pauses. I play beer pong with Natasha, who absolutely decimates me, but I physically can’t get drunk so she says I’m no fun.  
The whole time, my mind is somewhere else. It’s _with_ someone else. Someone that’s got his arm around Stephen Strange’s shoulders, and is nursing a cocktail like his life depends on having a drink in hand at any given moment.  
I know something changed since I checked in on him that night; Something shifted. I can’t help but over-think it.   
I can’t help but remember the feeling of Tony’s warm breath on my neck as he gave me instructions, standing so close that his body brushed against mine. All those little looks, those little comments. Words I used to believe to be empty, but that night, felt so loaded.   
Strange must have said something funny, because Tony throws his head and howls with laughter. Something turns in my stomach—possibly the mini hot dogs. I turn away and push my way through the crowd, not stopping until I’m on the front steps, breathing in the frigid air that rushes to encompass me.   
I shut the door. The music and chatter dies down to a bassy murmur.  
Fat snowflakes swirl lazily in the air and melt as they hit my skin. The whole yard is swathed in a white blanket, covering everything like a fluffy layer of soundproofing. It looks picturesque. Fake.  
I’m rubbing the goosebumps on my arms and considering heading out early, further solidifying Tony’s idea that I don’t like to stay out past 10PM, when the door swings open again behind me. I don’t have time to turn around before somebody wraps my leather jacket around my shoulders.  
“Don’t go outside without your coat, silly, you’re gonna catch a cold,” Tony says, patting my cheek with his metal hand. And then he ducks back into the house.   
He leaves the door slightly ajar.  
I stare at the space he used to occupy, draw my jacket tighter around my body, and heave a sigh of defeat. “Tony, wait!”  
He’s not in the living room when I bust through the front door. Or the kitchen. Someone says something to me, but I don’t stop to hear it; I pick my way through the throng of well-meaning friends and jog downstairs, into the basement.  
My hunch is correct, he gravitated back towards the wall of alcohol.   
It’s just him this time.   
I stop at the base of the stairs. “Tony.”  
He whips around to face me, stumbling over his own feet and catching himself on the counter in the process. Tipsy like a first-time drunk. “Cap! You’re, ah, still here. Good, good. Goooood,” he says, drawing out the last word as if he doesn’t know what it means.   
Or like he doesn’t mean it.  
I approach slowly. “Is it good?” I ask. “Do you actually want me to be here?”  
Tony downs a shot and slams the empty glass down on the bar so forcefully that I’m worried it might shatter. Thankfully, Tony’s glassware seems about as thick as the brick wall he’s built between the two of us. “F.R.I.D.A.Y, pour me another round,” he says, words thick and slurred, and waves his hand dismissively when his AI begins to warn him against getting more blasted than he already is. “No, no, don’t get up. I’ll pour it myself. Want somethin’? Whiskey, brandy? I have a nice Chardonnay if you’re a wine guy….”  
“Tony. You’ve been avoiding me all night, and you’ve drank so much you can barely stand. I think it’s time to stop avoiding this conversation.”  
“No, you don’t strike me as a wine guy…scotch it is, then. Great idea.” He pours himself a scotch on the rocks— most of it gets on the counter—and tops off my half-empty glass from earlier.   
I inspect the drink, which is now half unidentified fruity liquor and half scotch, and set it back down. Tony makes his way back around the bar. He’s wobbling so much one might think there’s a tightrope spanning the five steps it should take to get there. He sways to halt only a few inches before my face, close enough that I can make out each worry line, each dark eyelash, that drop of scotch that’s clinging to his beard. He clears his throat and takes a step back, breaking eye contact. I continue to stare evenly.  
Tony raises his glass, spilling a healthy amount on my shoes in the process. “Oops, looks like you’re in the splash zone.” He laughs like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever told. “Cheers to that, my treasured but stoic, and…frankly, boring… friend.” He clinks my glass, which is sitting on the counter, and throws back his shot.  
I’m still watching him. “Tony…”  
He coughs. “I’m starting to think the only thing you know about me is my name. I’m hurt, honestly. We’ve known each other how long? F.R.I.D.A.Y, order a copy of my autobiography for Cap, here, on me. I think he needs to brush up on his history. My history. He needs to brush up on…me. Did I say that right?”  
I grab him by the shoulder, rough enough to recapture his attention. “I don’t need your book, Tony. I need you to be honest with me. Can you do that?”  
“Anything for you, dear. But really, The Life of Iron Man makes a really good coffee table book…”  
“How long are we going to keep doing this?”  
Tony blinks, seemingly in slow motion. “Doing what?”   
“Pretend that there’s nothing going on. Between us. Ignoring each other.”  
“Going on? There’s nothing going on,” Tony says, spitting out the words so fast he trips over most of them.  
“Right.”  
“How much have you had to drink, Cap? I think it’s time to cut you off.” Before I can stop him, Tony grabs my drink off the counter and drains it all. This sends him into another wheezing fit. He thumps his chest a couple times.  
“Tony.”  
“Mhm?”  
“I’m serious.”  
“When aren’t you?”  
“I’m sick of beating around the bush. What changed since I came over? What did you mean that night, right before I left?”  
“Steve, I’m gonna need you to shut up now.”  
“No, I’m gonna need you to put down the drinks, look me in the eyes—”  
“Shut _up_.”  
“And tell me, with 100% honesty, that—mmph!”  
I barely have a moment to register the situation before Tony grabs the nape of my neck with his prosthetic, cold metal sending shockwaves down my spine, and mashes his face into mine. It’s not like any kiss I’ve ever experienced before; messy, rough, electric. Fueled by frustration. Sustained by everything we’ve left unspoken until this moment. Tony’s mouth is insistent, and it’s all I can do to lean into it. I place my hands on Tony’s hips and pull him tighter to my body.   
Without warning, Tony rips away and staggers backwards. “I told you to shut up. God, you’re persistent. Like a fly in my ear, you know that?”  
My mind is still clouded, reeling from what just transpired. I’m also a little winded. It’s like Tony sucked all the air from my lungs. I shake my head. “You’re unbelievable.”  
“…bly good at kissing? Thanks, I know. Been practicing in the mirror for years.” He gestures to his lips. “The trick is to keep ‘em loose, especially when your opponent is stiff as a board.”  
“Did you just say opponent?”  
“Want another drink? I want another drink. I’m gonna get another drink.”


	3. The Agreement

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────  
 _Tony_

I wake up to a headache so strong I would think it’s trying to split my head in two. I wipe the crust from my eyes and check the time on the watch I apparently never took off before going to bed—I also, apparently, didn’t change at all. I’m still wearing my dress shirt, halfway unbuttoned and rumpled to hell, and jeans. With a belt. I had to have been hammered to sleep in goddamn jeans and a belt. It’s also late; a good chunk of the day has gone by and my stomach is gurgling ominously as if to confirm that yes, I did indeed skip breakfast.  
I ease myself out of bed. Reattach my arm. The world feels like it’s swaying a bit, though I think that’s just me. I stumble out of my bedroom and down the stairs with care, making a slow beeline to my kitchen. There are only two things on my mind: aspirin and coffee.   
And then there are three, because Steve is sitting on my couch.  
His legs are crossed, supporting a magazine that he’s thumbing through lazily, and he’s coddling a steaming cup of what I can only presume to be coffee in his other hand. He doesn’t seem to have noticed my entrance, so I clear my throat, a little too loud. He jumps slightly and closes the magazine. It’s a really old edition of Home and Garden. “Tony, you’re awake. Good.”  
My head was already reeling a moment ago, and now it’s spinning out. Images of the party last night, of Steve’s face so close to mine, the kiss, the blurry aftermath… it all flashes in my mind and refuses to solidify. What happened after the kiss?  
“I— you’re— here. Huh. Um, did we…?”   
“No,” Steve says flatly.   
“No, right, of course not, because that would be…bad? I’m unclear. Why are you here?”  
Steve sets the magazine down on the coffee table along with his cup—god, I want some coffee— and stands up to face me. He’s sporting some pretty serious eye-bags and pursed lips that refuse to give away their genuine expression. “I’m here because I needed to talk to you while you’re sober,” he says. “And I’m not about to let you ignore me for another three months.” He gestures to a pile of folded linens. “I slept on your couch.”  
“Wow. You’re one of those people who take “make yourself at home” way too literally, huh?” I say. I shake my head and instantly regret it. “Alright. Spill. Talk. But I’m getting coffee first.”  
“There’s a fresh pot.”  
“Oh! Would you look at that.” I caress my coffeemaker; the glass is still warm. Thank the heavens. I pour myself a mug and pop two aspirins. “I take back what I said, you can literally live here if you make coffee every morning. I can’t be mad at that.”  
“I didn’t stay overnight so I could make coffee, Tony. You know that.”   
I lean over the island counter. “Okay, shoot, then. What do you need from me? A non-disclosure agreement? A restraining order? Another kiss, with tongue this time? I’m open for suggestions.”  
“Is this a joke to you?” he snaps. “Is this all a joke to you?”  
I take a long, indulgent sip before answering. “I’m not laughing.”  
“I can’t figure you out, Tony. I really can’t,” he says. “I can never tell when you’re flirting, or just egging me on, or when kisses actually mean something to you, because it certainly meant something to me. Meanwhile, you were drunk to the point of standing on the bar screaming Brittany Spears songs.”  
“To be fair, I don’t have to be very drunk to do that.”  
Steve grabs my hand and lowers it to the counter, forcing me to set down my mug. “Okay, so how drunk do you have to be to kiss me?”  
“For the first time? Very. Like, right now? Not at all. Though I probably still have morning breath, so I don’t know how much of a pleasant experience that would be for you.”  
He lets go, steps back. I can almost see the gears whirring in his head. “Is that a joke?”  
“Oh, for the love of god, Steve—the kiss meant something, alright? Is that what you wanted to hear? It fucking meant something and that scares me. But I really, seriously, think that you and me…maybe…we could be something. I don’t know. I’ve never—look, I’m rusty, okay? Cut me some slack.”   
He’s staring at me with those obnoxiously blue eyes. He opens his mouth, then shuts it, runs his fingers through his hair, and starts pacing. I watch him stalk back and forth between my stairwell and the island and take the opportunity to drain half of my cup. He stops in front of me again, leaning heavily against the counter like his legs are ready to give out underneath him.  
“I just…sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what to say to that. I was expecting…”  
“What? What were you expecting?”  
“I don’t know!” he says, nearly shouting. “I don’t know, okay? I was expecting you to say that it didn’t mean anything, or it was just a one-night…thing. Tony, I was prepared to never talk to you again if it came to that. Jesus. I didn’t think you’d actually be honest with me.”  
“You have no faith, Cap. When have I never been honest with you?”  
He gives me a look.   
“Don’t answer that.”  
A sigh, now, that makes his whole body shudder. “Okay, what now? What does this mean for us?”  
“How should I know? You’re the one that wanted to talk so badly that you stowed away in my house.”  
“You’re the one that set me up on the couch, Tony. You literally gave me pillows and a blanket.”  
“Oh.” I chew on that for a moment. “How much did I have to drink, again?”  
“Can we get back to the subject of the argument, please?”  
“Are we arguing? Ooh, our first spat as a couple. This is exciting.”  
He comes around the island to stand in front of me, less an an arms length away. Up close, the inch or two he has on me feels like a foot. “Okay,” he says, taking an authorial tone that sends chills down my spine. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”  
“I’m listening.”   
“You’re coming over to my apartment next Friday. 8PM. We’re going to go out to dinner. No binge-drinking, just us, just honest conversation. Agreed?”   
And then that dumbass sticks out his hand. I stare at it, smirk, take it, give it a firm shake. “It’s a date, Cap.”

  
⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

  
Oh god, I’m an idiot. I’m an idiot, and I haven’t done laundry in so long, and what am I supposed to wear to a date with an ex-rival, anyway? Business casual? I don’t do business-casual. All my shit is either business, or casual. What is he gonna wear? He didn’t even tell me where we’re going, and when I texted him about it, all he said was “you’ll see”. You’ll see?! Unbelievable. The audacity…  
I pull a suit out of the back of my closet. It’s fancier than I would normally wear on a date, but Steve isn’t exactly throwing me any lines, so I toss it onto the pile of maybes. I can’t afford to spend all night on this, given that I still haven’t showered today and I objectively smell like ass.   
I hop into the bathroom and crank the water as hot as it’ll go without leaving third degree burns, then disconnect my arm and cover the shoulder piece with a shower cap. I need to figure out a better system for that. If anyone else saw me like this, I think I’d die.  
After I’m done scrubbing my skin pink, and after I’ve dried off, slicked back my hair…all that’s left to do is stare at myself in the mirror and have second thoughts.  
Right on schedule.  
I mean, honestly, what am I doing? I was fine alone. You know, relatively. Sort of. Okay, not at all, but that’s neither here nor there. Am I even ready to get into another relationship? Especially with someone like Steve, with the kind of history we have? What happens if we fall in love, get married, then one day get divorced because of a spat over who lost the remote? We’re just two prideful assholes that think that their way is the right way, no exceptions.  
Hmm.  
On second thought, maybe we’re made for each other.


	4. The Favorite-Restaurant-Since-The-Forties Card

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────  
 _Steve_

I’m expecting Tony to arrive fashionably late, but he’s almost exactly on time. 8:03pm, to be exact. I raise my eyebrows involuntarily when I see him, standing on my doorstep all decked out in what must be his fanciest suit. It’s deep red, probably silk, with a tasteful black dress shirt and tie. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him so gussied up. Or, rather, he’s never gotten that gussied up for _me_.   
“You clean up well,” I say, stepping aside to let him enter my foyer.  
He stomps the snow off his shoes. “Thanks, doll, I put gel in my hair for you. You better make it worth it.”  
I laugh slightly. Maybe I’m bad at reading sarcasm, or maybe I’m just bad at reading Tony, but I still can’t quite tell when he’s kidding.  
“I can only hope,” I say. A silence passes between us. He’s looking at me expectantly, mouth crooked in one of his signature smirks. “So…uh…how do you feel about pasta?”  
“Pasta,” he repeats.  
I nod.  
“If you take me to Olive Garden, looking like _this_ , I swear to god, I will smack you.”  
“Not Olive Garden. Trust me, I think you’ll like it,” I say. I offer my elbow, which he accepts hesitantly, threading his arm through mine and hooking them together.  
“Hmm, but do I trust you?” he says, and this time I’m almost positive that he’s kidding because his smirk has broken out into a full-faced grin.   
I lead him out of my apartment and lock the door after us. “I’m driving,” I say.  
“Good, because I only brought the one suit.”  
I scan his face. I don’t think he’s joking this time, either. “You _flew_ here?”  
“I was excited, alright? I haven’t been on a date in like five years. Sue me.”  
I open the passenger door and allow Tony to slide in before taking up the drivers seat. “I’m excited, too,” I say, quietly.  
Tony cups a hand around his ear. “Hm? What was that?”  
I clip in and gesture for him to do the same. He does, albeit begrudgingly. “I’m excited, Tony.”  
He sits back, assuming his default shit-eating grin. “Sounds even better the second time around. You gotta get me a voice recording of that.”  
“You’re a piece of work.”  
“Guilty as charged.”

  
⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

  
The drive there is mostly devoid of conversation; I don’t think either of us have the right words to say. There are so many things we’ve swept under the rug for so long, that peeling it back is anxiety-inducing. Tony fills the void with 80’s rock blasted over the radio. He knows the words to most of the songs. I sneak glances at him every now and then, looking away when he tries to catch my eye.   
“You’re not slick, you know,” he says.  
“Maybe I wasn’t trying to be.”  
“Oh, so you want me to know that you’re checking me out? Kinky.”  
“Stop distracting the driver.”  
He’s quiet for a while longer, alternating between staring out the windshield and passenger window. I catch the motions out of the corner of my eye. It’s strange; for so long I’ve known Tony as a colleague, an enemy, a hesitant friend, yet I’ve never been so hyper aware of his presence. Every sniff, shift, adjustment of his seatbelt, it’s all a concrete reminder that we’re really doing this. This is actually happening. Oh god, I wish he would pinch me. Or punch me. Either one would feel more familiar.  
And then he actually does punch me, lightly, on the arm. “Punch buggy,” he says. “No punch backs.”  
It jolts me out of my thoughts so abruptly that for a moment all I can do is stare at him. My mouth twitches into a smile that I attempt to hide by turning back to the road; a futile effort. I know he saw it. I can see his own smile in my periphery.

⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

  
“It’s a mom-and-pop type establishment,” I say, as we pull up alongside Antones. “Not exactly the fanciest—” At this, he makes a tutting sound, “—but it’s one of my favorite restaurants in the city. It’s been around since I was a kid. So, you know, a really long time.”  
He peers out the passenger window, and I follow his gaze. It looks exactly as I remember it when I was young, except for the fact that it’s now squeezed between two giant office buildings. It’s a modest restaurant, with very few bells and whistles beyond a touch-up paint job on the rotting trim. The windows are foggy and radiate warm orange light that reflects off of the snow. The neon “open” sign is missing it’s “O”, but it’s glowing nonetheless.  
“Best food in the entire city, guaranteed,” I continue.  
Tony turns back to me. “What are we waiting for, then? Don’t just sit there and make me hungry.”  
The inside of Antones lives up to expectations as well. Warm, close quarters, filled with circular tables and booths upholstered with cracked red leather. I request a booth in the back, and the hostess leads us through a pair of double-doors into a smaller, darker room that’s lit mostly with candles and string lights wound around the ceiling beams.  
I keep sneaking glances at Tony, trying to gauge his reaction. He’s looking around the room, inspecting the decorations.   
We settle into an empty booth and accept our menus.   
“So, what do you think so far?” I ask as soon as the waitress steps away from our table.   
He nods slightly, eyes still trailing around the room. He looks down at our table, runs his index finger over its surface, rubs his fingers together, nods again. “Yeah, it’s a nice spot. Very atmospheric...y. Let me guess, you take all your dates here? Nice move, very personal.”  
“You’re the first, actually.”  
Tony’s air of cool indifference melts into wide-eyed disbelief. “What, really? Wait, wait, wait— You’re telling me you’ve had this favorite-restaurant-since-the-fucking-forties card stowed away in your back pocket this whole time and I’m the one you decide to use it on?”  
The waitress fills our glasses with ice water. I thank her, take a sip. “Maybe I was saving it for someone special.”  
He’s still looking at me with that dumbfounded expression. He turns around in his chair and back. “Are you sure you’ve got the right guy? Maybe you know another Tony.”  
“I surely don’t.” I pick up my menu and scan it as if I don’t already know what I want. “I recommend either the lasagna or eggplant parm. They also have really good ravioli here.”  
“I see how it is.” He picks up his own menu and sets it upright on the table, so all I can see are his eyes over the top. “You think you can out-flirt me. That’s blasphemy, you know.”  
“Is it.”  
“Mhm. Good thing you’re a looker, or I’d report you to the authorities. I’m feeling generous tonight.”  
“Then I’m sure you wouldn’t mind footing the bill?”  
“That’s not—”  
“Need some more time deciding?” the waitress asks.  
I close my menu and hand it to her. “Two eggplant parmesean’s, please.”  
Tony makes a move to correct me, but seems to change his mind. He folds his menu and stacks it on top of mine and gives the waitress one of those tight-lipped smiles, the kind you only give when you’re being polite. He squints at me when she leaves. “Rogers, you’re lucky I was gonna order that anyway.”  
“Uh-huh. You’re gonna love it.”  
Most of the night goes better than I had previously expected, though I can’t say I know what I expected at all. A date with Tony stark was just a big question mark until this moment, up until he sat himself in front of me. Until he shot his straw-wrapper at me. Until we made small talk that quickly broke down into a rapid-fire game of true or false to see who knew the other better. (I won, though he was a worthy adversary. I managed to trip him up when it came to childhood pets. I did not, in fact, have a hamster named “Stuffy”.)  
I feel like I’m coasting on clouds until the moment when he puts down his fork, staring down at his partially eaten food with furrowed brows. I can almost see the gears whirring in his head.  
“Is there a problem?”  
“Tell me something, Steve.”  
“Anything.”   
His tone worries me. It’s far too serious. I set down my own utensils and fold my hands in my lap, giving him my undivided attention. He sighs and runs a hand over his hair— which hasn’t moved an inch the whole night— and says, “Why now?”  
“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I say.  
Tony looks back up at me. There’s a fire behind those dark eyes. “Why now? Do you pity me or something? Is that all this is? A pity party for a broken man?”  
I sit up rigidly, hit by the force of his words. “What? No. I like you, Tony. Sorry…I thought that was obvious when I invited you on a date.”  
“Ach, I know, I know…I just…I mean…okay. After everything we’ve been through, you just show up out of the blue, checking in on me, a sad little widower living in the middle of nowhere…and now you’re suddenly interested in me? Doesn’t that sound a bit like a charity case?”  
“You’re not a charity case. I checked in on you because I care about you, not the other way around. And are we ignoring the fact that _you_ kissed _me_?”  
“Irrelevant.”  
“The feelings are mutual, Tony. It’s not about pity.”  
He picks up his fork again and chases a slice of eggplant around his plate. He stabs into it with an ungodly squeak. “Then what is it about? What made you change your mind? You know, about me?”  
“That’s a loaded question.”  
He stuffs the eggplant into his mouth and talks through it. “I’ve got the time.”  
I take a deep breath, smooth out the napkin in my lap. “Okay. Look. I don’t know how to explain it, but…you’ve got this… drive. This spark. I overlooked it for a long time.”  
He’s still watching me, chewing slowly.  
“I saw it light up when you went up against Thanos. When you laid everything down—your body, your life— for the good of everyone else. I realized that I was wrong. You are crazy, Tony…”  
“Heh.”  
“But you’re crazy _selfless_. Stubborn, fearless too. I realized all the things we could do if we worked together instead of working against each other.”  
“So…what, you just want to collaborate on a charity project or something?”  
I reach over and set my open hand on the table, leaving it there until he hesitantly lays his own hand on top of mine. I give his a squeeze. “I want you, Tony. Can you accept that?”  
Tony considers our hands for a long moment before his attention drifts to the sweets menu. “That’s pretty gay. Wanna order dessert?”  
I let out a loud bark of laughter despite myself. “Really? I lay my heart on my sleeve, just to get a ‘that’s gay’?”  
“Hey, I also mentioned dessert. Don’t you want to share a milkshake or something? Pretty romantic, if you ask me.”  
“I want a refund. What made you change your mind?”  
“What can I say?” He shrugs, smirks. “You really do have America’s Ass.”

⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

When we get back to my place, he follows me to the door. We stand outside for a moment, leaning on opposite sides of the door frame, each waiting for the other to break the silence until Tony clears his throat.  
“Well, I, uh…enjoyed myself,” he says.  
“Me too.”   
“Thanks for the sentimental pasta.”  
“My pleasure.”  
Another pause.  
“God, this is the pits. I feel like I’m back in high school. Can I just kiss you already?”  
I break into a smile and grab him by the lapels of his fancy jacket, pulling him into a kiss much different than our first. This time I’m ready for it, and Tony seems almost unsure, though his lips quickly soften to match mine. When I back off, his mouth chases after me, brushing my chin in the process. He keeps his eyes closed for an extra second.   
“Can I see you again?” he whispers.  
“I should hope so.”  
“Smartass.”  
“Yes, Tony.”  
“Okay. Sweet. I’ll, uh…call you?”  
“Looking forward to it.”  
“Okay.”  
“Goodnight, Tony.”  
“Goodnight.”  
I step inside and close the door after me, faced once again with the emptiness of my apartment. I’ve only taken off one of my shoes when I hear something outside that catches my attention— I roll up my blinds just in time to see Tony flying away, fully gussied up in one of his nanotech suits. I shake my head. Smiling despite myself.

  
  



	5. The Spontaneity of Tony Stark

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────  
 _Steve_

It’s been a few days since I’ve heard from him. I’m trying to not freak out, to practice patience…which translates to taking out my worries on a punching bag rather than pacing a hole in my apartment floor. My fist isn’t hitting hard enough today, though. Distractions have a way of seeping through.  
I’ve lived my life based on predictability and singular goals. Enlist in the war. Make a difference. I suppose that second one hasn’t changed much, though I suppose I hadn’t counted on it the impact it’d have on my own life. I’ve always been a constant of my own right, turning my nose up at Tony’s unpredictability, instability, his rash decisions. He exists in the gray area, and myself in the black and white.   
But since the final snap, since Tony nearly tore himself apart from the inside out for the sake of humanity, since I realized the intention behind his actions…the colors seem blurrier than before.   
Grayer than before.  
I throw an underhanded punch. The bag swings backwards, and I counter it with double the force. Somehow, it’s still not enough to knock it off its chains.  
There are times when I feel like my rigidity is who I am, at my core. But there are other times when I wonder if it’s who I _should_ be. What is it like to live like Tony? To allow a little spontaneity into my routine? What is it like to love him?   
I wonder if he’ll give me the opportunity to find out.  
My phone rings while I’m blotting the sweat from my forehead. I check the caller ID—Tony’s face stares back at me, that blurry selfie he took when he put his contact in. “Hello?”  
“Do you have ice skates?”  
I falter. Everything I considered saying to Tony once we finally talked again has fallen out of my head, replaced with a single question: “Ice skates?”  
“Yeah, do you own a pair?”  
“Uh…no?”  
“What size are your feet?”  
“Why?”  
“Because I’m gonna buy you some ice skates, dummy.”  
“No, I mean—why ice skates?”  
He sighs, long and dramatic and too close to the microphone. It crackles in my ear. “Because we’re going skating tonight, obviously. Come on, doll, keep up.”  
The concept of keeping up with this conversation has long since been out of the question. “Is this a prank call? Are you gonna ask if my refrigerator’s running next?”  
“No, I’m going to ask, what size are your feet?”   
“Tony.”  
“I’m gonna keep badgering you until you tell me. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  
“…Eleven.”  
“Cool, thanks. Be there at 6. Bundle up, buttercup, I don’t wanna make another capsicle.”  
“Wait—”  
And then he hangs up. I stare at my phone for an extra moment, trying to process what just happened. And then, slowly, it dawns on me; if I wanted to experience the spontaneity of Tony Stark, I suppose I’ve bought myself front row seats.

⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

  
Tony takes me to a campground in the woods just outside the city. It’s closed for the season, but according to Tony: “They still let you skate on the pond, though.” He assures me of this while he’s clambering over the wooden fence, which is sporting a sign that very clearly says ‘closed, keep out’.   
“Sure.”  
I follow him despite my better judgment.  
The pond in question is a reasonable size, hemmed in by a tightly-knit forest, and it looks like someone already came before us and shoveled it off. Possibly Tony. I wonder if he thought that far ahead.  
He unzips his duffle bag and pulls out a couple lanterns, one of which he nestles in the snow bank and the other which he slides out onto the ice. “For you,” he says, passing me a shoe-box.   
I accept it and take off the lid to find a brand-new pair of figure skates, bright white, staring back at me. I raise an eyebrow at him. “You, uh…didn’t need to buy these, you know. We could’ve gone to a rental place, or something...”  
“Only the best for you, my dear.”  
I pull them out by the laces, which are tied together, and my stomach twists in a similar pattern.   
Tony’s sitting in the snow, lacing up his own skates. “Try ‘em on, I wanna make sure they fit.”  
All the opportunities I had to say no, all the excuses I could have given, flash in my head. I could’ve said I was busy, that I wasn’t feeling too good, hell, I could say that right now. I could tell him I have a stomachache and we have to go home, that I’m really sorry…  
Tony stands with the grace of a trained dancer and steps onto the ice, skating out a few feet before spinning around to face me. “What’s the hold-up, Cap?”  
“Nothing, I just—sorry.”  
I brush off the log next to me— resigning myself to my regrets and a damp ass— and sit down. I try to put on the skates as quickly as I can despite my shaking fingers.   
“They fit?” he asks, once I’m all laced up.  
“…They fit.”  
Tony starts skating backwards. Showoff. “Good. Then get down here, dummy!”  
My feet and ankles feel stiff and heavy, and the knot in my stomach has only grown tighter.  
“Come on, the water’s fine. A little nippy, but—”  
“Tony, I don’t know how to skate.”  
He stops sharply, spraying shaved ice behind him. “Wait, really?”  
“Really.”  
He glides back to the shoreline. “You’re not fucking with me? The great Captain America can’t ice skate?”  
“Don’t rub it in. I just never learned, alright?”  
He contemplates this for a moment, nodding slowly, scratching his beard. He seems to come to a conclusion, because he extends a hand and says, “I’ll teach you.”   
I squint at him. “You’ll teach me.”  
“It’ll be fun, don’t worry. We’ll go slow.”   
I consider his eager face, his genuine smile, and calculate the likelihood of this being the timeline in which I manage to say no. The odds are slim to none. I suppose that’s how I got into this situation in the first place; he’s very persuasive, and I’m too soft to disappoint him. I take his hand.  
“Come down real easy, sideways. I got you.”  
I comply, bracing myself against his hand, but my skate slips out from under me and I end up sliding down the incline on my back instead. I skid to a halt at Tony’s feet, and he stifles a laugh.   
“Not a word.”  
“While you’re down there, you might wanna think about taking the guards off your skates before getting on the ice. Just a thought.”   
I follow his gaze to the bright blue rubber guards still attached to my blades. Oh. Right. “I was getting there.”  
“Of course.”  
I sit up and pry the guards off, tossing them in the snow next to Tony’s. My blades shine against the glare of the lantern. They’re taunting me, reminding me how real this is. I consider sitting here for the rest of the night; I mean, the seat of my pants is already wet, I might as well be Tony’s cheerleader from the sidelines. That doesn’t sound so bad.  
“Ready?” Tony says, giving my hand a little squeeze.  
_Damn him._  
“As I’ll ever be.”  
He helps haul me to to my feet, and I thread my arm through the crook of his elbow for extra support. The ice looks bumpy. Intimidating. Uninviting at best.   
No time like the present, I suppose.  
I take a tentative step forward, placing my right foot on the edge of the ice. It immediately slips out from under me, and Tony has to throw out his other arm across my chest to keep me from falling flat on my face. “Steady, Cap, you got this.”  
“This is so embarrassing.”  
“I know, right? I really should be recording this.”  
I shoot him a glare with enough fire behind it to melt this whole damned pond. He counters it with a wink.  
“You’re halfway there. Keep going,” he says.  
I heave a sigh and, clinging to Tony for balance, drag my left foot underneath me. It sets me into panicked motion once again, struggling to keep both of them in line. They want to go backwards or forwards independent of each other, leaving me to shuffle in place. Tony squeezes my arm tighter.  
“Good, good,” he says, when I manage to stop flailing. “See, you’re alright. Wanna try to push off?”  
“No.”  
“No?”  
I look down at my skates, which have started to drift inwards. When I try to straighten them, I stumble again.  
“It’ll be easier when we’re moving. You can’t just stand here forever,” he says.   
“Standing sounds pretty good to me.”  
“Hm.”  
Without warning, Tony releases me— regardless of my shouts— and glides away from my grasp. I’m left spinning my arms like a pinwheel in a last-ditch effort to stay upright. “Tony!! What the hell?”  
He hovers just out of reach. “I’m taking off your training wheels,” he says. “Push with the sides of your skates. You can also shuffle if that’s easier for you.”  
I’m struggling just to stay upright. The ice has a mind of its own, and I swear its agenda is to take me down to its level. I wouldn’t be surprised; we have a bit of a rocky history. “I’m not gonna ‘shuffle’.”  
“Then find another way to get your sweet ass over here.”  
I sigh, try to center myself. _Alright, alright. No problem. It’s just…like walking. On razors._  
I push off with my left and immediately wobble to my right, scrambling to balance on an ankle that’s threatening to give out. I don’t know what to do with my foot once it’s lifted off the ice, so I bring it forward again, but my toe catches and I fall the rest of the way. Tony grabs me by the elbows and my momentum pushes us both backwards.   
“So…what did we learn?” he says once we’ve slid to a stop.  
“This is stupid. It feels so unnatural.”  
“Fair. We also learned not to put our picks in the ice.”  
“I feel like a baby deer.”  
“You look like one, too. It’s very cute. Super endearing.”  
“I’m gonna punch you.”  
Tony takes my hands again and starts skating backwards, pulling me with him. “Remember what I said about pushing with the side of your foot. Just go easy. There, see? You’re getting it.”  
I don’t feel like I’m getting it, but it’s a little less intimidating when I let him do all of the work. It’s enough of a challenge just to keep myself steady while he propels the two of us around the pond. I do manage to push off a couple times with minimal success, though. Followed by a couple stumbles.  
When I’m less worried about falling on my face and getting my fingers run over, I allow myself to focus on Tony. He seems so content, in his element. There’s something softer in his expression that I’ve never seen before. It warms me from the inside out.   
“Want to try skating on your own?” he asks after completing a few laps.  
“I’m good with this,” I say. Mostly because I don’t want to let go of his hands.

  
⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

  
We sit in the car with the heat blasting, indoor lights on, and thermoses of hot chocolate cradled in our hands. Tony’s sitting cross-legged in the drivers seat, staring out of the windshield even though it’s too dark to see anything. His cheeks are flushed pink. I’m sure mine are worse. I feel like I’m defrosting all over again.   
“Thank you,” I say, after a long bout of silence.  
Tony considers me. “What for?”  
“All of it. I wouldn’t have done any of this if you hadn’t pushed me to, so…I appreciate it.”  
“Well, in that case, you’re welcome.”  
I stare down at my thermos, through the plume of steam it’s expelling. There are little marshmallows bobbing at the surface.  
Tony reaches over and pokes my arm. “Something eatin’ you?”   
“You make me second-guess everything, Tony. Do you know how hard it is to do that?”  
“Is that a compliment?”  
“It’s scary as hell, but…yeah, I think I like it.”’  
“Then thank you. Or you’re welcome?” He laugh slightly. “I’m still unclear.”  
“Me too.” I tap the sides of my thermos with my fingernails. “I’m learning to just enjoy the moment.”


	6. The Sleepless Nights

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────  
Tony

 _Everything is dissipating around where I stand, frozen, forced to bear witness and unable to look away from the horrors playing out in front of me. I see Peter, reduced to nothing but a pile of ash as he begs for help I can’t give. I see Pepper, rising from a chasm, pierced through the heart on a bloody spear. She’s saying something, but I can’t hear it. She’s reaching out, but I can’t get to her. I scream, but she can’t hear me. No one can hear me. They’re gone. They’re all gone. There’s nothing I can do._  
 _The ground crumbles under my feet and I fall backwards. I land on the battlegrounds, my ears popping on impact, and the clamor of an unfair fight floods my head. Shouting. Shrieking. The clash of metal, the thud of bodies hitting the floor. Friends bodies, enemies bodies, laying hauntingly still in pools of shared blood._  
 _I see Thanos, and he has the stones. All of them._  
 _He turns to me and smirks._  
 _And then everyone is turning to me. And they’re chanting. “Do something. Do something. Do something.”_  
 _I cover my ears and squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t speak. My lips won’t part. My vocal chords are tied. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…_  
 _“Tony.”_  
 _I look up to see Steve’s face looming over the horizon._  
I bolt upright in bed and gasp for air.   
It takes me a minute to get my bearings again. I’m drenched in sweat, my blankets are halfway off the bed and tangled around my legs, and I’m gulping in air like I just ran a marathon. Every muscle in my body is tensed and ready for action. There are no actions left to take.  
I sit up against the headboard and attempt to collect myself. The darkness is suffocating, so I click on my desk lamp and blink through the harsh yellow light it emits.  
It’s not the first time I’ve had this dream, though it’s never exactly the same. Sometimes the events are shuffled around, sometimes it’s Pepper that dissipates in my arms, sometimes I snap, sometimes I don’t.   
Steve’s new.  
The likeliness of getting back to sleep now is slim to none, and closer to none— given that I haven’t been able to swing it, yet. I usually use these rude awakenings as an excuse to get up early and start working, with the knowledge that I’ll probably fall asleep at my work station sometime in the afternoon, regardless of how much coffee I force into my system.  
I don’t want to work right now, though. I’m squinting against the glare of my phone, and my finger is hovering over the call button, and I don’t even remember pulling up his contact but I’m not about to give myself time to over-think it. The phone rings three times before he answers.   
“Hello?” Steve mumbles, voice gravelly and thick with sleep.  
“Hi,” I say. Pause. “It’s Tony.”  
“Tony…” Rustling sheets, a click. He sounds slightly clearer the next time he speaks. “Are you okay?”  
“Um…Yes? Physically, yes. Otherwise…Uh…Sorry, I know it’s late. I probably shouldn’t have called.”  
“No, what’s wrong?”  
“It’s late. Forget it. You need your beauty rest, go back to sleep, it’s nothing. Goodnight.”  
“W-”  
I hang up and set down my phone. God, my heart rate has only increased, I don’t know why I thought that’d be a good—My phone is ringing. It’s the National Anthem. Shit.  
I consider sending him to voicemail or letting it ring out. I force myself to go against my sensibilities. “Hello?”  
“You know I’m already awake now, right? You might as well tell me what’s going on.”  
I let out a long breath. “Okay. Okay, okay. I’ve…been having dreams, lately…”  
“What kind of dreams?”  
“Well, nightmares, I suppose. About the snap. About…both of the snaps.”  
“Oh. I see.” Steve’s silent for a moment. “Do you want to elaborate on that?”  
“Not really.”  
“Okay.”  
Another long pause, on both ends.  
“What would you like to talk about, then?” he asks.  
That’s a good question. I didn’t really think that far ahead. “I just…I can’t sleep. I kind of need something to take my mind off it.” I pull my blankets back up to my chest. “Uh…tell me what you did yesterday.”  
“Alright.” He starts recounting his day with agonizing—and appreciated— detail. Woke up at 6, hit the gym, got lunch at that deli, _you know the one where the manager lets their dog sleep on a bed behind the counter and visit with the customers_ , went grocery shopping, ran laps with Sam, cooked dinner…  
His voice has an extra touch of warmth in the morning. Low, sweet, a little raspy still, and he speaks so methodically. I sink deeper into my bed and roll over, sandwiching my phone between my cheek and the pillow. I’m not even sure if I’m listening to the words anymore, I’m just listening to him. He could read me a court summons right now and I’d probably say thank you.  
“…And then I decided to catch up on my reading…still there, Tony?”  
“Mhm,” is all I manage to say. My eyelids are getting too heavy to keep open.   
He keeps talking. I stop fighting it and close my eyes, letting his words drift through my subconscious until I, too, drift off and find myself dreaming of criminally boring errands, narrated by the one and only Steve Rogers.

  
⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

  
When I wake up again, I’m immediately disoriented by the blinding light filtering through my curtains. How long have I been asleep? I sit up, wipe some drool of my chin…it’s almost noon, so far too long. Jesus Christ. I grab my phone to check my notifications, and falter as soon as I unlock it; I’m still on a call. With Steve. A call that apparently has lasted seven hours. I unplug my phone—it’s hot to the touch— and put it to my ear. I can hear some activity on the other end but can’t discern it. “Steve?”  
“Oh, Tony!” His voice is distant. I hear footsteps, rattling. “Hold on, you’re on speaker…there. Good morning, sleepyhead.”  
“Did you stay on call this entire time?”  
“Yeah…” he says, and it seems kind of sheepish. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. You were pretty shaken last night.”  
“Oh. Uh, wow…thanks,” I say. Is that the best response I can come up with? He’s making me flustered, and he’s not even in the room. “Sorry for calling so late. And then falling asleep on you.”  
“Really, it’s fine.”  
“…Could you tell when I dozed off?”  
“You started snoring, so yeah.”  
I can’t help but laugh. “Sorry.”  
“Don’t worry, it happens every time I tell someone about my daily routine. I guess I’m just that boring.”  
“Hey, you said it, not me.”  
“Mhm-hmm.” He pauses. “Honestly, though, are you okay?”  
The raw, genuine concern in his voice is enough to yank my heartstrings straight out of my chest. “Yes. I’m…yes. Better now, thanks to you.”  
“Good.”  
I imagine him standing there, wherever he is right now, holding the phone to his ear and expectantly waiting for me to say something else. Maybe getting ready to say goodbye and run a few hundred laps. I want him to be standing in front of me, I want to reach out and feel the forms of his face, his sharp jaw and soft cheeks…  
“What are you doing later?” I ask.  
“I don’t have plans yet,” he says. “Got something in mind?”  
“Can you come over?”  
“What time?”  
“I dunno, five-ish?”  
“I’ll be there.”

  
⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

  
“You brought me to a restaurant that meant something to you, and it was very sweet and whatever, so I’m making you a home-cooked meal. Because I exist to one-up you,” I say, gesturing at Steve with my wooden spoon. Droplets of soy sauce fling off and land on the floor in front of him.   
“Sounds about right,” he says. “Need any help?”  
“No, I need you to sit your ass down on that barstool and watch the master at work.”  
He complies, perching on the barstool with the poise of a model and tucking his hands into his armpits. “What are you making? It smells good.”  
“None of your beeswax. Chicken stir-fry.”  
He nods his approval. “Nice choice.”  
“Thanks, Gordon Ramsey. Means a lot.”  
Steve watches me for a few minutes as I finish cutting up the carrots and slide them from the cutting board into the wok.   
“Forgive me if this is…rude, but…does F.R.I.D.A.Y work like Alexa?” he asks.  
“She has access to the bluetooth speakers, if that’s what you’re getting at. You gotta ask nicely, though.”  
Steve glances at the speakers, located in strategic areas around the room—the top of the cabinets, nestled into the bookshelf, on the shelf next to my potted fern. He seems moderately impressed. “F.R.I.D.A.Y, can you play _Iris_ by the Goo Goo Dolls? Please?”  
Silence. I let it simmer for a moment before bursting out laughing. “Sorry, sorry…she’s only activated by my voice. Hold on. F.R.I.D.A.Y? Play _Wannabe._ ”  
The speakers spring to life to the sound of the Spice Girls enthusiastically telling me what they want (what they really really want). I knock some extra sauce off my spoon and hike up my grip on the handle, scream-singing into it like a microphone—and also like my life depended on this performance. Steve continues to sit still as a statue, though the corners of his mouth are starting to twitch into a smirk.   
It’s not long before I’m out of breath and bending over, hands on my knees, questioning all of my life decisions.   
He claps politely.   
“Alright, alright, I concede,” I pant. “F.R.I.D.A.Y, play _Iris_. The king requests it.”  
Wannabe cuts off mid-sentence, and there’s a pause before the familiar sound of strumming guitar fills the speakers.   
I turn back to the stove and use my microphone to stir the sizzling veggies. “Goo Goo Dolls. Interesting choice,” I say. “I would have expected, like…old person music.”  
“Nat’s been helping me expand my music taste,” he says.  
I snort.  
He stands and makes his way over to me, slowly, nodding his head to the music.  
“Hey, I didn’t give you permission to leave your watch tower.”  
Steve wraps his arms around my waist. Immediately, I feel warmth spreading through my cheeks; I turn away so he won’t notice, and he leans his chin on my shoulder. He starts swaying. “Do you like to dance, Tony?”  
“In the shower, yeah. Why?”  
“Dance with me, Tony.”  
“Is that not what this is?”  
Instead of responding, he places a hand on my shoulder and turns me to face him. My first instinct is to protest, but I’m curious to see this through; he takes my good arm and laces our fingers together, then puts his other hand on the small of my waist. I sigh as if it’s a chore and clasp his shoulder.   
He moves slowly and with purpose, guiding me in a slow circle as we sway. He closes his eyes and sings along under his breath, and I stare at him. It’s not just his face that’s perfect; everything about him is effortless, sure of himself yet understated. Everything inside me that’s wanted to punch him in his perfect nose from day one and take him down a peg like the rest of us, is now replaced with an ever-present urge to kiss him. To try and break off a piece of his quiet confidence and keep it for myself. Maybe his love could scrub me clean of all my impurities.   
I kiss his neck, right below his ear. He turns his face into the back of my head and tightens his grip on my waist.  
I suppose this will have to do for now. 

  
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────  
Steve

I wake up to the sound of rustling sheets beside me. “Tony?” I murmur. If he heard me, he doesn’t make it known. The door creaks open, spilling dull light into the room, and I catch a glimpse of his silhouette stumbling out before I’m left in darkness once again.   
I try to go back to sleep under the assumption that he just went to use the restroom, but as minutes tick by without his return, I start getting antsy. I crawl out of bed and step out into the hallway, immediately wishing that I had put on anything other than my boxers; there’s a draft circulating through the house, and it sends goosebumps crawling up my bare skin. “Tony?” I whisper. No response.   
The bathroom the door is open, and the lights are off inside. He’s not in the kitchen or the living room, and it’s too dark to see anything beyond the basement stairs. That only leaves one place I could imagine he’s gone.   
The stairs to his workshop creak underfoot. A sliver of light shines from beneath the door, so I suppose my suspicions are confirmed. I knock. “Tony?” I say, a bit louder this time. “Are you in here?”  
Again, no answer. I open the door slightly and peer inside.  
Tony’s standing on a platform, in the process of being bundled up in his Iron Man armor. An older model, not nanotech— an old trusty, I would suppose. He turns to me and opens his helmet. He looks about as tired as I feel—dark under-eye bags, red eyes, lips are pursed into almost a straight line. The garage door is open, letting in gusts of frigid night air, sending fresh bumps sprawling across my body. I rub my arms.  
“What are you doing?” I ask.  
“Couldn’t sleep,” he says. “I didn’t want to disturb you again.”  
“I heard you wake up.”  
“Sorry.”  
“It’s okay. I just got worried when you didn’t come back.”  
He doesn’t respond.   
“…Is it the nightmares again?”  
He studies my face for a long moment, his own twisted and pained, before turning away, looking out the door. His silence speaks louder than words ever could.  
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask, shuffling across the floor to his side and resting a hand on his arm.  
“They’re getting worse,” he says. It’s quiet, but I catch it. “I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do for me.”  
I shiver involuntarily and offer a slight nod. He turns back to me. “Do you want to go for a ride?”

⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

  
Tony gives me one of his coats—a puffy one, with a fake fur lining—and insists that I put on my pants and shoes. He also hands me a chest harness. “This might be a stupid, awful, garbage idea, but I’m not about to let you die on me. Literally or otherwise. Here, clip that…yeah, right here…okay. Good.”  
When I’m all clipped in, I wrap my arms around his neck and grab hold of his armor, where the chest plate is slightly raised. I’m hanging from his back like a monkey, and I’m having some serious second thoughts about this whole thing, particularly the part where I put my life into the hands of an over-tired Tony.   
“You aren’t scared of heights, right?” he asks.  
“No.”  
“Excellent. Hold on.”  
“Wait—”  
He closes his helmet and blasts off out of the garage, rocketing up and over the trees with dizzying speed. The wind whips around my face and instantly dries out my eyes, so I squeeze them shut and bury my face in the cold metal of his back.   
He flies upward for what feels like ages before I feel him turning forward, leveling off. He slows down a bit, just enough that I can open my eyes again and squint against the wind. When I look down, I can’t help but utter a “Wow.”  
The valley looks so small, yet so vast. Filled with what looks like model trees, and a winding road that looks little more than a squiggly line drawn in the earth. I tighten my grip. “It’s beautiful.”  
Tony dips down and starts flying almost vertically in the other direction, then swoops back up again before hitting the treetops. A shout escapes my lips, followed by dazed laughter.   
He slaloms through the air with the grace of a trained pilot and pulls up to a stop on Mount Heremar. He lands on his feet and kneels down to let me slide off, unclip. My limbs feel like jelly, so it’s all I can do to stop myself from stumbling backwards. Tony extends an arm for balance, which I accept.  
“That was amazing,” I say breathlessly. “Parachuting out of a plane is one thing, but…whew. I can see why you like that suit so much.”  
“Hmm.”  
He’s opened his visor and is staring out at the valley with a blank expression on his face.  
My smile dissipates. I step a little closer, still holding onto his arm. “You okay?”  
He’s still as a statue. When he speaks, his voice is a hoarse whisper. “It’s haunting me.”  
“What, the dream?”  
“The last fight…we won, but it’s haunting me.”  
“You almost died, Tony. It’s understandable to be shaken up.”  
He frowns. “It’s not that.”  
“Pepper?” I venture, quietly, though the name still feels too loud coming out of my mouth. Tony doesn’t flinch.  
“You know how I spent those five years after the snap, Steve?” he says, then continues before waiting for a reply. “I spent those five years working myself to the bone trying to figure out how to bring everyone back. I spent those five years sleeping for two hours a night, and dreaming of all the ways I would make Thanos pay. And then we did make him pay…and I don’t feel better.”  
“Well, healing takes time, Tony. You’re not gonna get over it overnight.”  
“What if I never get over it?”  
“I can’t answer that for you.”  
He meets my eyes, and I swear his are watering.   
“What do you see in me, Steve?” he whispers.  
I cup his face in my hands and plant a slow, gentle kiss beside his lips. “A future.”


	7. The Lack Of Caller ID

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────  
Tony

My phone rings while we’re making breakfast—pancakes, to be exact. Steve just dipped his finger in the batter and baptized my forehead like Simba, and I have him in a well-meaning headlock as retaliation, threatening to dip my whole hand in the batter and smack him with it. He’s laughing his ass off.   
That’s when my phone decides to vibrate itself nearly off the counter. I release Steve and pick it up, glancing at the suspicious lack of caller ID while Steve dusts the flour off of his shirt. “Probably spam,” I say.  
“Probably Fury,” Steve counters.  
I glare at him. “Shh! Don’t will that into existence, I swear to god. Take it back right now.”   
“You know I’m right.”  
“Yes, and I hate you for it.” I accept the call. “Tony Stark isn’t available right now, leave a message after the raspberry. _Pbbthh_.”  
“Tony _better_ be available, for his sake,” Fury’s unamused voice booms into my ear.  
I wince. “Nick Fury, what a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”  
“You can skip the formalities, Stark. You’re needed back in the field. We’re on the verge of busting a new Hydra facility, and I need you to be there.”  
My second cup of coffee turns to lead in my stomach. “Ha. Good one.”  
“It wasn’t a joke.”  
“You flatter me, chief. Really. But aren’t there…uh…other operatives you could put on the case?”  
“It also wasn’t a question, Tony. I’ve put up with your little vacation for as long as I could afford to, but it’s time to suit up and step back up to the plate. I expect to see you at the airport within the next two hours,” Fury says. “Oh, and make sure to pack some T-shirts, you’re going to California.”  
He hangs up before I can protest further. I stare at my phone in disbelief, frozen in place while my mind spins out of control and my heart threatens to beat its way out of my chest. “But…”   
Steve’s phone starts ringing.   
I meet his eyes, and he confirms my dreaded suspicions: no caller ID.  
Shit.  
There’s no way I’m getting out of this.

  
⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

  
The ride to the airport is quiet and tense. The air feels thick with apprehension, hard to breathe and compressing me from all angles; I squeeze the steering wheel until my knuckles start turning white. Steve’s sitting beside me, one of my extra backpacks at his feet, full of a borrowed clothes and some toiletries we bought at the dollar store. He didn’t have time to run home, given that his apartment is nearly an hour away, so we’re…making the best of it. I tried to give him clothes that I haven’t worn in a long time, so it’s less obvious, but none of them really fit him and there’s only so much a Coney-Island tee from 2011 can do.  
He’s the first to break the silence. “I’m sorry, Tony.”  
“Not your fault.”  
“Think you’re gonna be alright on this mission?”  
“Gonna have to be.”  
“Well, you _shouldn’t_ have to be,” he says, frowning. “It’s unreasonable to expect you to go back before you’re ready.”  
I shake my head. “Fury’s probably right.”  
“What?”  
“If I don’t get back into it…If I can’t just, get over this…then I don’t even know who I am anymore.”  
He studies me for an uncomfortably long moment. His eyes bore a hole through my skull, like he’s trying to peer inside and see for himself whether I’m telling the truth. “You’re a lot of things, Tony,” he says. “But you’re certainly more than Iron Man.”  
I let his words settle. They sound good. I’m not so sure I believe them.  
I turn on the radio to a 90’s-to-now station and crank it, just to have something else to focus on besides the road ahead of me, Steve’s intense stare, and the doubts in my head. Steve lets a few songs play out without protest before turning the volume down a couple notches. “They’re gonna ask us why we’re showing up together.”  
“Shit, right. Uh…we’ll just tell them you were in the area and we’re carpooling to save gas money, or whatever,” I say, turning the volume back up.  
“Okay.” He turns it down again. “Lets say, hypothetically, they accept that. Are we just gonna pretend to not give a shit about each other for this whole mission?”  
“I don’t know, probably. Do you have a better idea?”  
“I don’t know. No? I just…it’s gonna be weird. Acting like we’re not dating.”  
I pull up to a red light and take the opportunity to shoot him an incredulous look. “What, you’re not suggesting that we tell them, are you?”  
“No! Well, I mean, no, but…would that really be the worst thing in the world, Tony?”  
“Right now? Yes, it would. Steve, I have enough to worry about here. I don’t need to add extra anxiety to my plate just for the sake of telling the Avengers that we slept together,” I say, only realizing the sharpness of my words after they fall from my mouth.  
Steve sits up straighter in his seat and turns to look out of the window. “Okay. That’s settled, then.”  
“Don’t be like that. Look, I didn’t mean— ”  
“No, I get it, Tony. It’s fine. You’re right. Sorry for pressuring you,” he says.   
I lower my brows at him. Unconvinced. He offers a stiff smile that does little to persuade me, then reaches over and turns the music back up again.

⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

  
“Falcon’s already on site,” Nick Fury explains from a projection at the front of the cabin. “He’s been monitoring suspicious activity for the past week— they’re transporting large shipments of unknown materials back and forth to a high-security facility, we’re talking off the grid, incredibly secretive. We have reason to believe they’re manufacturing weaponry there, but I can’t speak for what kind of weaponry, so be on your guard.”  
I’m trying to listen to what he’s saying. I really am. The problem is, his voice is competing with a million other thoughts already taking up residence in my head. I attempt to sneak glances at Steve, who’s sitting across the aisle next to Natasha, but that involves leaning around Scott— who decided to plant himself right next to me— and he’s trying to figure out what I’m looking at. So I sigh, settle back in my chair, and force myself to focus.   
“…extremely important. Sam will fill you in on the rest of the details when you arrive.”  
The connection cuts off.   
“Fancy plane,” Scott says not two seconds later. “Do you think they have those little airplane peanuts?”   
I massage my temples. It’s far too early to be nursing a headache already. “Why don’t you go ask, Scott? And while you’re up, see if you can get me a Margarita.”  
“Oh, okay,” he says. “Good idea.”  
He stands up and sidles out of the aisle, disappearing behind the back curtain. I sink deeper still into my chair and try to stop my legs from shaking. We’re in for a long flight, and I can’t imagine myself sleeping, so I’m gonna have to get used to it. Or, at least, pretend that I’m used to it.  
Like Steve. He seems happy, all smiles and gentle touches on Nat’s arm. He has such a great smile, and under normal circumstances it would warm my heart, but today all it does is wrench it. It’s like he’s shoved a knife between my ribs and is twisting it further with each passing moment. The worst part is, it’s not his fault. He’s doing exactly what I wanted him to do. I shouldn’t be the one sulking.  
I wonder if he’s mad at me under that smile. I wonder if he knows how much he means to me. I wonder if he knows just how utterly terrifying this all is.  
He’ll drop me after this mission, I’m sure. Oh, Tony—too bitter, too selfish, too…emotionally stunted. I won’t blame him. I’ll let him go with grace and watch him fall back into his perfect routine, and I’ll be nothing more than a rock in his running shoes.   
My pity-party is rudely interrupted by a glass of something bubbly being shoved into my face. “I couldn’t get you a Margarita, but I got the next-best thing: ginger ale, and two bags of peanuts,” Scott says, as he spills most of the soda on my pants. I jump and make an inhuman noise, something between a squeal and a grunt.   
“Oh, oh my god, I’m so sorry!” he sputters. “Uh, I’ll go get—”  
“It’s fine. I’ll get it. Just—move.”  
Scott shuffles out of the way and I stalk past him to the bathroom, shutting the door behind me and leaning against it. I can feel the low thrum of the plane vibrating through my skull. When my brain’s been thoroughly scrambled, and the ginger ale has had time to thoroughly soak through my pants and my briefs, I grab a fistful of paper towels and get to work sponging up the mess. There’s only so much I can do. I’m cursed to have damp jeans for most of the flight, I guess.   
I brace myself against the counter and stare into the mirror. A tired man stares back at me. My eye bags give my emotional baggage a run for its money.  
I return to the cabin with as much poise as I can muster. Rhodey is sitting alone a couple seats back, and I take the opportunity to slide in next to him. He glances at the dark spot on my pants and raises an eyebrow. “Rough flight already?”  
“You don’t know the half of it.”   
Scott turns around in his seat and raises the half-empty glass of ginger ale. “Tony, do you want to finish this?”  
“Keep it.”  
“…What about the extra bag of peanuts?”  
_“Keep it_.”  
His eyes widen like a child that’s just been given the green light to gorge himself on Halloween candy. He turns back around in his seat and I can hear passionate crinkling, followed by Scott tipping the whole bag into his mouth like a shot.  
I lay my head back and close my eyes. I can feel the ache in my temples worsening, knock-knock-knocking on my skull, building pressure with no way to release it. Rhodey nudges my arm after a moment. I open one eye.   
“You good, man?” he asks.  
“What, right now? Fine. Why?”  
“Haven’t heard from you since the party. You’re not dying on me again, are you?”  
I laugh shortly. “Remember who you’re talking to here.”  
“I _know_ who I’m talking to. That’s the problem.”   
Perhaps there was a hole in my plan to sit next to the person who knows my tells. It’s hard to hide things around him, especially when I’m in such a muddled head-space.   
“You flatter me,” I say.  
“What made you agree to this mission?”  
“Is this an interrogation? I dunno, it just felt like time to jump back into the saddle, or whatever. Nick Fury is very persuasive,” I say. My pulse is pounding, now, matching the insistent rhythm of my headache. Fuck.  
“I was just wondering. It’s been a while since you’ve been out on the field.”  
“Yeah, yeah, I’m just full of surprises these days.”   
“Well, it’s good have you back, in any case. Sam’s been doing recon for a while now, he says the place is crawling with operatives. I thought we cut off the last of Hyrda’s nasty heads, but I guess they live up to their namesake. They’re quick to rebuild.”  
Is it getting hard to breathe in here, or is that just me? Can Rhodey hear my heartbeat as clearly as I can? Is it getting hot, or is my palm just sweaty?  
I wipe my hand on my knee and start rocking slightly. Breathe in, breathe out. Calm down. This isn’t new. Panic attacks aren’t new. But I can’t let this happen. Not here, not now. My vision is blurring. Hands clenching, shaking. Breathe in, breathe out—   
“Hey, whoa, are you okay?” Rhodey says, grabbing my arm.  
I wrench it out of his grasp. “Don’t touch me!” I snap. Too loud. Everyone turns to look at me. The cabin swirls, a sea of worried colleagues with too many eyes aimed straight at me. Steve starts to stand up.  
“I’m fine, just—I’m fine.” I dart back to the bathrooms, where I immediately fall to the floor in a desperate attempt to ground myself. I stay kneeling until my breathing starts to regulate again, and my vision starts clearing up, and the room is no longer spinning around me. I pull myself to my feet and flush the toilet. Wash the dirt off my hands, splash water on my face. Pat myself dry. Talk myself down.  
Return to the cabin and face the fire.  
“Bad leftovers, am I right?” I say, capping it with an uneasy laugh.   
Nat and Rhodey don’t look convinced, but they don’t say anything. Steve’s just staring at me with an unreadable expression.   
“Oh, yeah, I feel ya there, bud,” Scott says through a mouthful of Peanuts. “I got this sushi the other day…”  
He launches into some rambling story that I immediately tune out of. I take a seat in an empty row opposite Rhodey and look out the window, eventually pretending to take a nap so I don’t have to see the judgment on my friends faces. I don’t sleep, as expected.   
It’s gonna be a long flight.  



	8. The Can of Worms

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────  
Steve

Blame is a slippery slope, and one that I’m more apt to fall down while sitting through an endless flight. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.  
I don’t have a visual on Tony, but he’s the only thing clouding up my brain— I’m torn between worrying if he’s okay, and replaying his words over and over… _I don’t need to add a bunch of extra anxiety to my plate just for the sake of telling the Avengers that we slept together._  
Is that all we are to him?   
I don’t blame him for not wanting to come out, to tell our friends and colleagues before he’s ready. It’s not that. I just can’t quiet the doubts in my head telling me that from his perspective, we were never going to be anything more than a casual affair. I curse myself for getting so invested.  
After a while, Natasha seems to pick up my apprehension. She lays a hand on my shoulder, startling me out of my thoughts. “Hey, are you okay?”  
“Oh..of course.”  
“You don’t have to lie to me, Steve. You’re not even on the same planet right now.”  
I shake my head. “Just distracted, I guess.”  
“Hmm.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a tablet. “Wanna watch a movie? Get your mind off it?”  
“That’d be nice.”  
She chooses a flick that I’ve never seen before, and when it’s over, I still don’t feel like I’ve watched it. I just stare past the screen and feel grateful that at least I don’t have to pretend to remember what we were talking about anymore.

  
⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

  
Maria Hill puts us up in a hotel— split into two suites— and gives us orders to rest, get up to speed with Sam, and be ready to attack tomorrow morning. Sam is eager to debrief us when we get there, gathering us in a private meeting room and rolling out a hand-drawn floorplan onto the table.   
“Here’s what we know so far,” he says. He points to a doorway labeled with a red X. “This is the loading area, where most of their shipments come in. Big palettes covered in tarps, padlocked boxes, the whole shebang. The place is always guarded, and the interior is crawling with operatives. They monitor everything that comes in and out.”  
“So, that’s that, we can’t get in,” Tony says. “Case closed, solved it for you.”  
I give him a look, as does Sam. Tony’s leaning back in his chair, nearly far enough to tip over, and is nursing a margarita he ordered from room service. Sam clears his throat.  
“On foot, no. That’s where Scott comes in.” He turns to face Lang, who’s watching videos on his phone on low volume. “Scott.”  
Scott jumps, dropping his phone into his plate of nachos. “Ah, yes? Present.”  
“You’re going to shrink down and infiltrate one of those shipments, get inside the loading area, and from there I need you to get to the control room and disable the security system.”  
He extracts his phone from the cheesy mess and salutes with it, stringing mozzarella across his face. “Yes, sir.”  
Sam shakes his head and turns to Natasha. “Nat, once Scott gives the all-clear, you’re going to sneak into the control room through this window—” he points again, “And download their schematics.”  
“Got it.”  
“Scott, when you’re done disabling security, I’ll need you to plant a bomb in their assembly room.” He uses his finger to circle a portion of the map. “That should be around here somewhere. Once we have the schematics, we’re blowing this place to kingdom come.”  
“Wow, that’s great. Sounds like you all have this whole…thing…under control,” Tony says, setting down his glass and splashing his drink onto the tablecloth. “I guess you won’t need the rest of us, huh?”  
“Not so fast,” Sam says. “Rhodes, Steve, Tony—you’ll be running distraction, same as myself. I need you to get in, split up, and cause as much ruckus as you can while keeping them away from Natasha and Scott.”  
“Understood,” Rhodey says.   
“So, you’re telling me you flew me all the way out here just to be a battering ram?” Tony doesn’t even trying to hide the bitterness—and the hint of terror— in his voice.  
“It’s an incredibly important position, Tony,” Sam spits back. “I kind of figured the guy with the armor wouldn’t mind a little action, but I guess I was wrong?”  
Tony lowers his brows and rocks his chair forward to land, loudly, on all legs once again. “No. I’ll do it.”  
“Good. Any other objections?”  
Silence settles over the table.  
Sam rolls up the paper with a snap. “Dismissed.” 

  
⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

  
Tony sends me a text that contains only a water-droplet emoji. I stare at it, and consider responding with a few question marks, and then I consider not replying at all; it’s far too late to open this can of worms.  
Sam snores gently in the bed next to mine, and I haven’t heard a peep from Natasha in the adjacent room. The only sign of activity in our suite belongs to me, driven by my inability to sleep, and my only companion up until this point has been the ticking clock on the wall.   
Tony sends a follow-up text. _If it’s not obvious, I’m at the pool. Come meet me if you’re up._  
I sigh. Consider the can of worms open.  
Walking through empty hotel hallways in the middle of the night is one of life’s most surreal experiences. The carpet is a dizzying pattern of colorful swirls and shapes contrasted horribly by a gray backdrop, and all the doors look exactly the same. Despite the relatively simple layout, I feel as though I could get lost in here for days and come out a changed man.  
I scan my keycard to get into the pool room, immediately squinting against the fluorescent glare. Tony’s sitting on the ledge, PJ’s rolled up to his knees, feet dangling in the water. He doesn’t look up to greet me. He just keeps staring down at his reflection.  
I join him in silence. Sitting cross-legged, waiting for him to acknowledge my presence. It doesn’t seem smart to open my mouth at the moment, what with all the doubts, frustrations, and insecurities that have had far too much time to fester in my brain.  
Tony splashes his feet idly. “You know, Cap, I was thinking…we’re at a hotel, why not make the best of it? We’ll get our own room, single bed, and pretend it’s an accident. You know, forget all the other stuff.”  
I let out a tight breath. “Tony…”  
“I know, I know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Wishful thinking, I suppose.”  
“I’m sure you’ll do fine tomorrow,” I offer. “We’ve done missions like this a million times.”  
He doesn’t reply.   
“That’s what this is about, right? The mission?”  
He meets my eyes. There’s a glint of something indiscernible in his. “Steve, I—”  
“What the hell are you guys doing? Do you realize how late it is?”  
We both whip around to face Sam, standing in the doorway, looking like he just crawled out of a zombie apocalypse. His eyes are nearly glued shut, and he’s leaning against the doorframe to keep himself from falling down.  
“Oh, Sam! I’m, uh…sorry, did I wake you?”  
“I’m a light sleeper,” he grumbles. “So what are you doing?”  
I glance at Tony, who seems frozen in shock, eyes wide and panicked, hands balling into fists. I turn back to Sam and lay on my best fake smile. “We couldn’t sleep, so we were just strategizing about tomorrow. Right Tony?”  
Tony doesn’t reply until I nudge him. “Uh, yeah.”  
Sam glares at us. “Well, you should get back to sleep. We have an early morning.”  
“Right. I’ll follow you,” I say, standing and giving Tony a lingering glance over my shoulder. He won’t meet my eyes. I suppose I should stop trying.

⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

I’ve barely fallen asleep when I have to wake up again. It’s still dark out, with only a sliver of light peering over the horizon. Four in the morning has never felt so dismal.   
It’s about a hour drive to get to the facility, and we’re split into two cars— Sam, Scott, and Rhodes in one, and myself with Tony and Natasha. Tony had tried to insist on flying there in his suit, but the idea was quickly shot down— about as quickly as he would have been. It’s not worth the risk.  
So, he settled on driving instead. I’m sitting in the front seat, fighting every urge to look at him. He’s staring forward as well, I can see his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel in my periphery. It’s deathly quiet in the car.   
Natasha takes the first stab at a conversation. “So, are you guys at each others throats again, or what? Because if you’re gonna get into argument and crash the car, I’ll need a heads up.”   
“No, we’re not,” Tony says. “We’re fine. Right, Steve?”  
I continue to stare out the windshield.   
“See, right as rain,” Tony says. “No crashes today.”  
“I’m not sure if ‘fine’ is the right word to use, but sure,” I say under my breath, regretting it as soon as the words pass my lips; exhaustion has started eating away at my ability to censor myself. I know they both heard it, too. Even the slightest whisper would be impossible to miss in such palpable silence.   
Natasha sighs and settles back in her seat. “Oh boy.”  
“What are you talking about?” Tony says, flashing me an incredulous look.   
“It doesn’t matter.”  
“Kind of sounds like it does.”  
“Is this really the conversation you want to have right now?”  
“Of course not! But you started it, so go ahead, why don’t you say what’s on your mind? If we’re so not-fine.”  
“I don’t think you actually want me to do that.”  
“I’m sorry I brought it up,” Nat says. “But I’m serious, if I need to tuck-and-roll, you guys gotta give me a fair warning.”  
“We’re fine!” me and Tony snap in unison. Our eyes meet, and Tony’s eyebrow arches.  
“Oh, so now we’re fine,” he says.  
“I need you to pay attention to the road, please.”  
“We’re not gonna crash!” he shouts.   
“I think I should just tuck-and-roll.”  
I whip around to face her. “Stay clipped in, I swear to god.”  
It’s Nat’s turn to arch an eyebrow. I heave a sigh and settle back into my seat. None of us say anything for the rest of the drive.


	9. The Change of Plans

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Tony

It's a relief to finally pull over, though the bad energy follows me like a cloud. Steve won't look at me. I pretend that I don't want to look at him, either, but there's not much else to see; we've stopped in the middle of nowhere with only trees and assorted wildlife to keep us company.

"Doesn't look much like a facility to me. Is it so top-secret that I can't even see it?" I say.

Sam points into the woods. "We're walking the rest of the way. I've routed a path that should avoid any tripwires. You all know your positions, right?" He waits for our nods and one-word confirmations, before turning and beckoning for us to follow. "Good. Lets move out."

I fall in after Rhodey, and I think Steve's behind me. I try to ignore the burning feeling in my stomach, and the tightness in my chest. This is fine.

It's a long walk. None of us offer to break the silence, not even Scott—and my apprehensions are only solidified when we crest the hill. The facility is a massive brick of a building. Flat, expansive and rectangular, built mostly of steel with very few openings beyond a couple tiny inlaid windows. Most of the traffic seems localized on opposite sides of the building, where operatives are coming and going in single-file lines. It's a bottleneck, tough to get into under normal circumstances, and the only element playing into our favor is that of surprise. 

Lets hope our luck doesn't run out.

It's Scott that goes first. He shrinks out of sight and leaves us to wait with bated breath for his cue, as if we weren't tense enough already. Eventually, his voice crackles over our earpieces. 

"I'm in. Shutting down security."

"Waiting for your signal," Natasha replies.

I tap my chest and allow my nano-tech suit to encompass me. At one point it might have felt like an embrace from an old friend. Today, it's prison.

"Are you ready?" Steve says under his breath. He's standing by my side, nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, still not meeting my eyes. Tense. Shield forward. A soldier, ready to fight. 

This isn't the fight I care about. What I wouldn't give to take him aside, lay it all on the line, apologize and hear him say it back—instead, I'm left with unanswered questions and no time for answers. Do you still see a future in me?

"Nope," I say, and close my helmet. 

Scott's voice returns, this time accompanied by labored breathing. "All set. I think."

"You think?" Rhodey says.

"Their system's tight. I can only hope I pulled the right plug."

"It's gonna have to be good enough." Natasha brandishes her pistol and cocks it. "I'm going in. Cover me." She doesn't wait for a response before sliding down the hill towards the side of the facility. 

Sam gives a long, low whistle. That's our signal—no turning back now.

Steve and Rhodey charge to the left, Sam takes the right, and I fly to the top of the tree line to get a better vantage point. Red lights flash from the small windows, one of which Natasha has already blown open with her gun. An alarm shrieks in protest— It seems Scott's apprehension was warranted.

I can see Rhodey controlling the flow of guards, who have started flooding out the door like homeless ants. Steve is making quick work of anyone that gets through Rhodey's fire— He already has one on the ground, and another knocked backwards with a shield to the chest. My breath hitches. Steve fights like a deadly ballerina, hyper focused and graceful, allowing nothing to deter him from his goal. And god, his ass looks so good in those pants.

A flash of blue fills my visor. I've barely registered it before I'm spiraling out of position, knocked aside by a sudden force on my right shoulder. 

I scramble to regain control, grasping at branches that snap in my hands, barely managing to swing my legs underneath me before hitting the forest floor. The thrusters counteract my inertia, awarding me a short moment to assess the damage. There's a strip of exposed skin on my shoulder, little more than a surface wound, but nothing like a scratch—this was a burn. The nanites re-form around the strip of tender flesh.

No time to question it. I re-engage and hover between the trees, taking care to stay hidden this time while I scan the perimeter. Three hatches have opened up in the roof of the facility, revealing long-barreled guns of some sort all pointing straight in my direction— most likely energy beams, possibly heat seeking.

"Alright. Robots," I say, rolling my neck. "I can do robots."

I rocket out of the trees, weaving between their fresh barrage of beams, and send a couple of my own in retaliation. The middle gun explodes on impact. Satisfying. 

The left gun adjusts its aim and fires. In a moment of over-confidence and raging adrenaline, I duck out of the way of one beam and directly into the other's line of fire, allowing a stray beam to carve into the small of my back. I yelp and fall to the side, flipping around just in time to send another pulsar blast towards the offending target— _boom_ — and then the other. I skid to a halt on the roof.

My breathing is labored, my knees feel like jelly, my lower back is screaming is pain. The only plus side to a laser wound is the instant cauterization, but man does it hurt like a bitch. 

"Tony, what are you doing? You were supposed to fall in behind me," Sam's voice crackles through my headset.

"I'm...Roof, I'm on the roof," I pant. I brace myself on my knees. "They have energy beams. Big guns, lasers. The kind that cuts through your suit like butter."

"Noted. Now get your ass down here, there's a swarm of them—" He cuts off, followed by the sound of grunting, the clank of metal against metal.

My stomach turns. I don't have time to think about it. Or anything. I shut my helmet once more, aim down at the smoldering remains of the nearest gun, and blast it until the wreckage falls away in a plume of smoke. I leap through the opening feet-first.

I'm dropped onto a control panel—or, rather, what's left of a control panel— and send a few operatives scrambling backwards. Their panicked retreat doesn't last long, though, before they pull out handguns and start firing. Their bullets ricochet off my suit and blow out the overhead light, plunging us into darkness broken only by the glowing computer screens circling the room. A small window of opportunity.

I grab the nearest operatives wrist and wrench it, sending a bullet through his colleagues chest, and swing my other fist into his jaw. He goes limp and crumples to the floor. 

I don't have time to admire my handiwork before I'm jumped from behind. My attacker wraps their arms around my neck and squeezes with all their might, and all I can do is engage my thrusters, sending both of us rocketing backwards. I try to ignore the ungodly _crunch_ that resonates through my head as their body makes contact with the wall. There's no time. There's no room for weakness. Regrets have to come later.

I outstretch my repulsars and send out blasts all around the room, not much caring where they land. My vision is starting to blur, head spinning like a top while I'm frozen in place. I keep shooting until someone's voice crackles again in my ear. 

My knees hit the ground with a clank, and then the room falls morbidly silent. No operatives are left standing. They're strewn about the room in a haphazard fashion, and even in the dim light I can see dark patches of blood steadily pooling from their wounds. I'm reminded, bitterly, of the dreams. Of lying in the middle of the battlegrounds, watching my friends get picked off one-by-one, and lying there until something—or someone— wakes me up.

In this case, it's Sam's voice that drags me back to reality. "Tony, do you copy?"

"What?"

"I need backup in the east wing. Can you get here?"

"Yeah, I...yeah. Working on it."

I stumble to my feet. The room pitches. I feel drunk. No...no, being drunk would be better than this.

Steve's voice cuts through the static. "Nat, status report. How are those files looking?"

"Slow going," Natasha replies. "It's not even a quarter of the way downloaded. You're gonna have to buy me more time."

"Can you make it go faster?" I say.

"What do you want me to do, kick it?"

"Tony, I need you over here _now_ ," Sam snaps.

"Right, sorry dear."

The control room exits onto a metal catwalk, spanning the length of the expansive room I now find myself looking out onto. This room alone must take up a majority of the facility; it's massive, with a vaulted roof supported by hefty concrete pillars. It looks to be their assembly room, if the conveyor belts and various types of machinery are any indication, but most of the equipment is covered in tarps. There's no one in sight.

I can hear muffled commotion from either side of the building, intermingling with the blaring alarm, which doesn't help to orient me. I know Sam's in the east wing, but my head is too scrambled for that to mean anything. All I have now is left or right. I choose right. I suppose it's up to fate if I've chosen correctly.

I storm the catwalk, metal on metal reverberating throughout the corridor. My vision is clouded with images of Thanos's army, of all the people I wasn't able to save— it's like all my worst memories are fighting to take the helm of my downward spiral. Everything is congealing into a single, constant sense of existential dread, and my adrenaline is far too high to stop. I'm a tank without a driver. Or, maybe, a tank driver going through a manic episode. Neither is preferable.

The sounds are getting louder, and the pressure in my skull is heightening to an alarming degree. 

I bust through a door at the end of the corridor and stumble into what looks like a storage area, filled with metal shipping containers and about fifteen operatives engaged in combat with Sam. They don't notice when I enter, though it seems they have other priorities; one of them yells something indiscernible, and runs for the back door with the others soon in tow. Sam sends a few final shots their way before dropping down from his flight and staring after them, obviously as confused as I am.

"After all that? Seriously?" I pant, and Sam shoots me a look. 

"Something's wrong here, Tony. There's got to be a reason for them to retreat like that. Did you see anything on your way over?"

"I don't know, a hallway?"

"You're funny, man. You know this is serious, right?"

"This place is practically a ghost town outside of that control room, Sam," I say. "I guess it's possible there's less of them than we thought."

Sam chews on this for a second. "Or..."

"Or they're evacuating." 

Sam meets my eyes, and the moment of recognition is mutual. "Maybe we're not stalling them... they were stalling us. God fucking damn it. Steve, update, now."

A pause, static, a dull thud. My heart catches in my throat, only relaxing when Steve's voice cuts through the noise once again. "They're scattering," he says. He's out of breath, too. "Something happened, they all just... stopped fighting. Something's not right, Sam, you all should get out of there."

"Nat, what's that fucking download at?"

"Halfway. You think it jumped to 100% in a few minutes?"

"We have to evacuate, now. I think they're gonna blow this place to kingdom come before we can get the chance to. Scott, do you copy?"

No response.

"Scott?" Sam repeats, louder and more insistent this time. The panic is spreading; it's not localized to me anymore, it's palpable in the air. "Scott, you son of a bitch, can you hear us?"

Silence.

The ground rumbles.

"Shit," I say under my breath. "That can't be good." 

"Get Scott," Sam says, pointing towards the door. "Get him the fuck out of here. I'll take Natasha. Steve, Rhodes, clear the area. Get as far away as possible."

"But—" Steve starts to argue.

"We don't have time for 'buts', soldier," Sam snaps. "You all have your assignments. Now go."

⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

I find a human-sized Scott lying on the ground of the equipment room, surrounded by charred fragments of what must must have been some heavy machinery, now little more than an imprint in the tiles. Blood pools from his shoulder. His eyes are closed. He's unresponsive. _Shit._

I extract a finger from my suit to press it up against his neck. He's still got a pulse, at least. "Scott, wake up." 

No response. I slap his cheek gently, to the same result, and then once more, not so gently. He spasms into consciousness and lets out a shout. "Wh—what's—"

"Shut up, it's me. We gotta get out of here. What happened to you?"

"Tony?" His moment of clarity devolves into a cringe of pain. He clutches his shoulder. "I was hiding. Waiting for my cue from Natasha, when... _ah_...that assembly station exploded. Just straight up, kaboom!! And here I am. Fuck, this really hurts. My left ear is ringing. Is that normal?"

"Your earpiece is broken," I say. "Take it out and come with me. Things are about to go south real fast."

"Right...okay." He complies, and allows me to wrap his good arm around my shoulders. I support him at the waist.

"Hold on tight," I say. "We're flying out of here."

I engage my thrusters and rocket towards the catwalk. Behind me, I can hear the rest of the machinery starting to explode one-by-one, as if on cue, releasing shock waves that threaten to throw me off course—which isn't hard. I'm already unbalanced by the extra cargo clinging to my side. All I can do is grip Scott tightly and hope we don't hit the ceiling, or hope the ceiling doesn't hit us.

The whole building is shaking, now. Crumbling. Spitting out large chunks of sheetrock and letting loose light fixtures, which crash to the ground below. If I get out of this alive, I'm telling Steve— 

That's when something hits me. Something large, solid, heavy, coming down too fast to stop. I'm thrown the rest of the way onto the catwalk, barely managing to toss Scott to the side before I'm crushed into the metal with enough force to knock all the breath out of me, suit or not. There's a nasty crunch, and it doesn't take long at all to figure out it was my leg, not the floor. Agony floods from my ankle to my hip, reverberating in searing waves through my whole body. I know what broken bones feel like. This is worse. I can't move my leg at all, but it continues to be compressed; whatever is pinning me wants to keep going. It wants to take me with it.

I twist my torso as much as I can to get a better look at my captor: a concrete pillar. I grit my teeth until I feel my jaw pop. There's no time for this. I barrage the pillar with blasts from my repulsars, to little effect other than a fresh influx of pain and an ominous groan from the catwalk.

Fuck.

I turn around. "Scott, can you walk?"

He had rolled to safety, and is now watching me with eyes the size of saucers, grasping his blood-soaked shoulder with an equally blood-soaked hand. "I...I don't know. Maybe? But I won't just leave you like—"

"There's no time, just go! Get out of here!" 

"But—"

"Get the fuck out!! Now!"

The building rumbles again, a tremor coursing from the depths of their facility. They must be planning to sink the whole place, get rid of all the evidence; including me.

Scott pulls himself to his feet and staggers backwards, steadying himself against the railing. "Tony, I—I gotta help you. Maybe...maybe if I went mega, I could pick up the pillar!"

"What, and bring the whole ceiling down on top of me instead?"

"I..."

I aim a repulsar at him and let it warm up. "Get out of here before I fucking shoot you!"

Scott stares at me, and I recognize the emotions flashing over his face. Pure and utter hopelessness. A desire to help. The ability to do nothing. Slowly, he nods, turns, and staggers down the corridor towards the left entrance. 

I watch him recede out of sight and brace myself as another, stronger tremor courses through the catwalk, shifting the pillar slightly and sending a fresh surge of agony up to my hip. It only confirms my suspicions: this building is going to come down on top of me one way or another, and fast.

I tell myself that it's okay. That I'd seen the end before, already stared it down and accepted it. I could do it again. I have to do it again. This is how it ends, for real this time, and I just have to lie here and wait for the inevitable. I should be a pro at this by now. But I'm not. 

My skull feels like it's caving in more than the snapped bones and crushed tendons in my leg. My vision is clouding. My breathing is irregular. I know why. It's not the pain.

It's the face I see when I close my eyes, it's the singular person overriding every thought, taking up residence in my heart. 

It's the man I see...saw...a future in.

God, I really did see a future in Steve, didn't I?

I curse myself. Of course giving my life up for the sake of humanity was easy, because it didn't matter if I died as long as I took Thanos with me. I was kamikaze. Blinded by revenge. I had nothing to lose. Nothing mattered except killing one person, and as much as I hate to admit it...humanity came second. My death came second.

And now there's something in my life that comes first, and I'm leaving them, for what? Because I wanted to prove something?

I'm full-tilt panicking, and this time, it's not because of death itself.

This time, it's because of what I'm leaving behind.


	10. The Broken Shield

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

_Steve_

A tremor courses through the uneven terrain, pulsing outward from the facility in waves as it continues its all-too-steady implosion; the whole building is leaning, now, on a crumbling foundation. Windows pop like fireworks. Those Hydra bastards wanted to go out in style, I guess, and I'm in no mood to stay for the show.

"They're taking too long," I say. "I should go in there."

Rhodes doesn't answer. He doesn't have to— we both know that he shares my feelings. I see it in the way that he shifts from foot to foot, staring down at the facility with unmatched focus.

"Rhodes, we can't just stand here anymore."

"Easy, Cap. Twelve o'clock, coming in hot."

It's Sam and Natasha. They bust through the door, black smoke pluming from behind them, coughing something awful. Rhodes and I run to meet them and inspect their injuries— for the most part they made it out unscathed. "Are you two alright?" Rhodes asks, immediately following up with, "Nat, did you get the files?"

"Been worse." Natasha brandishes an SD card. "And just barely. I'd prefer not to cut it so close next time."

"Might not be a next time if we don't get out of here," Sam says. "Where's Tony and Scott?" Rhodes shakes his head. 

"They haven't come out yet?"

I'm staring past all of them. My short-lived relief has already worn off. Come on, Tony. There's movement inside the building, I can see it— a figure stumbling through the smoke. I'm the first to the door, and just manage to catch a limp Scott Lang as he falls to his knees in front of me. One of his arms is drenched in blood, spouting from a sizable gash in his shoulder, and his complexion is paler than a ghost. I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. In an instant, the others are by my side.

"Scott!" Rhodes shouts. "Jesus, we need to get him to a doctor. Now."

I can't bring myself to move. "Tony..."

Rhodes takes Scott from my arms into his own. "I'll fly him."

"Tony." I grab a fistful of Scott's shirt and force him to face me, in the moment not apologetic for the wince of pain I caused. "Where is he, Lang?"

"Catwalk," Scott sputters. His voice is faint and weak, topped off with a guttural cough. "Inside. On the...on the..." Another cough, worse than the last. Rhodes and I share a look.

"Get him out of here," I say. "I'm going in."

He doesn't argue, nor waste time blasting off in the direction of the cars.

Natasha puts a hand on my shoulder. "Steve, it's suicide."

"Are you saying you wouldn't go after him?"

She offers a rueful smile, shakes her head. "I'm saying good luck."

"Be careful, Steve," Sam adds, resting his hand on my other shoulder. Worry has etched deep lines into his forehead. "Bring him back."

I consider them for a moment—just a moment— before offering a nod and busting through the door.

It's darker than pitch in here, and the air is thick with smoke that pours from an unknown source. It's hot, suffocating, disorienting, and I'm immediately thrown into a coughing fit. It doesn't matter. None of this matters anymore. I cover my mouth with the crook of my arm and run, shield raised above my head, trusting blind faith that the ground, or my legs, don't give out beneath me.

The ceiling is failing, dropping large chunks of rubble that hit my shield with surprising force. I just let it rain. There is nothing in my head but the will to keep moving. To find him. 

I don't stop to catch my breath until I hit the back wall and scramble to find the door handle. It's stuck, or latched— no time. I kick it down.

When the smoke clears, I see him.

Tony.

Tony, lying in the middle of a catwalk that bows ominously beneath him.

Tony, a pillar crushing one of his legs, pinning him to the floor.

Tony, unmoving. 

My heart pitches. I scream his name, and he shifts slightly, awarding me a brief moment of respite. Very brief. I hug the wall and make my way over to him as fast as I dare, obliging the catwalk's wishes by pausing every time the metal groans underfoot. I drop to my knees once I'm close enough to reach out and take his face in my hands. He's not wearing his helmet, so I run my fingers over his cheeks, kiss his forehead, stroke his hair. "I'm getting you out of here."

"Steve, you shouldn't be here. This place is gonna blow, I can't let you—" The catwalk lurches. Tony sucks in a sharp breath. 

"Tony, I'm not letting you die. You should know that by now."

He meets my eyes. His are tearing up. So are mine. _No time._ I brandish my shield and jam it between the pillar and rubble that has avalanched around his leg, and push down with all my might. The pillar raises an inch before falling back down, hard. Tony yelps.

"Sorry, sorry," I say. "I can do this, just one more time. Be prepared to go."

"Steve..."

"Please, I have to do this."

He doesn't argue further. I reposition my shield and grit my teeth. Tony warms up his thrusters. This time, I push with everything that I didn't even know I had. All my remaining strength, determination, desperation. The pillar shifts further, and Tony sends out a strong blast from his repulsars—still, it's not enough. Even with our force combined, he doesn't budge. He disengages, but I refuse to stop. I can't. _Not like this._

My shield groans under the pressure. Tony reaches out, trying to take my arm. I shrug him off. I can't afford to break concentration.

"Steve—"

_I can't._

My shield snaps.

Shards of vibranium hit my face, and my hands hit the pillar, which crashes back down with double the force. Tony cries out. "Steve, Steve, you have to stop. My leg—I can't. I can't get out."

I sink to my knees next to Tony, unable to meet his eyes. My attention is on the remaining half of my shield, little more than a jagged edge now. 

"Steve," Tony says again. "This isn't a question anymore. You have to go while you still can."

"You're talking like a dead man," I say, my mouth bitter as the acrid smoke. "You aren't one yet."

"Honey, I don't have a choice."

"I do. I'm not fucking leaving you."

Tony lets the words settle before reaching out with a shaky hand. I accept it and bring his fingers up to my lips, finally meeting his gaze as I kiss his knuckles. Tear stains leave shimmering channels down his cheeks. He takes in a hiccuping breath. "You're a noble man. I always loved that about you, you know. But sometimes you're too noble for your own good."

"Stop it. Stop talking like that."

"I'm sorry, Steve." His voice breaks. "I didn't want this to happen. And I— I didn't mean to say the things I said. I'm sorry I couldn't—"

"Tony." I cup his face and wipe the tears away with my thumb. "I don't care about any of that. You already know how much you mean to me. We'll find a way out of this, okay? I mean, dammit— I've almost lost you too many times to count already."

He mouths something, but it's overshadowed by another, more insistent tremor that courses through the facility and sends another pillar crashing to the ground nearby. The pillar topples half of the ceiling in it's descent, showering us with stray rubble that I can only attempt to block with the remains of my shield. Tony takes in a sharp breath and folds his hand over mine.

The cold metal sends goosebumps coursing across my skin.

I stare at his prosthetic.

Maybe...

No.

But what if...

"Tony. There might be another way."

He just looks at me.

"Only...only if you agree to it, though."

He furrows his brow. "What is it?"

I hold up my shield and point the jagged edge towards his leg, watching as the confusion drains from his face.

" _Oh_."

"Can you build another one?" I ask. My voice is trembling worse than the facility. My whole body is trembling.

He smiles. It's weak, but there's a renewed spark in his eyes. "Is that even a question?" I match his smile, however fleeting. We don't have time for sentimentality. "This is going to hurt. Bad. Can you take off your armor?"

He taps the reactor on his chest and the nanites shrink away, leaving Tony in only his shirt and jeans, which are dark with blood. His upper thigh is exposed, just enough to make the cut. I turn back to him. "You'll bleed out."

"Give me the shield."

"I'm not—"

Tony reaches over and takes it for himself. He blasts the sharp edge with his repulsars until it's glowing red hot. I think, with some amount of dry wit, that maybe being the only person in the world to weaponize your prosthetic does have its perks. 

He hands the smoldering metal back to me."Do it now. Don't hesitate."

I don't.

I line up the cut, brace the shield with both of my palms, and plunge it through his leg with all of my strength. He screams, but I can't hear it. All I hear are explosions. Rumbling. The symptoms of the time we've wasted, signaling our closing window of opportunity.

It's done.

I rip off my shirt and tie it tightly around the wound. He groans, but doesn't protest. I drape one of his arms around my shoulder and scoop him up, pressing him tightly against my body. I run fast as I dare. We're no longer afforded the luxury of tiptoeing, and the catwalk makes its protests known, finally collapsing behind us as I clear the threshold. The pillar hits the ground with a resounding crash. I don't stop to look back.

Everything is a blur, made hazier still by the smoke catching in my lungs. The door is a foggy beacon guiding me to the light. I run towards it. Run, run, keep running. I don't allow myself to stop until my feet hit the grass, and I collapse to my knees in front of Nat and Sam. They're yelling something. I can't hear it. One final shockwave washes over us as the facility finally implodes on itself, and I bend over Tony in an attempt to shield him from the flying debris. He turns his face into my bare chest. 

When the dust settles, I feel Natasha's hands on my shoulders. She's still trying to say something. My ears are ringing.

"Hospital," I wheeze. "Now."

⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

I sit on a stiff leather couch and eye the stack of magazines in front of me, none of which would pacify my nerves, and await the nurse's return. My leg is bouncing, fueled by numerous cups of shitty coffee. To say it's been a long day would be the understatement of the century. The ticking clock in the corner is eager to remind me just how many hours I've been waiting to see him again, and my urge to refill my cup with _more_ shitty coffee is a testament to how hard it's been to keep my eyes open.

Lang was already admitted, thanks to Rhodes, and got a couple stitches in his shoulder. They wrapped him up real nice, prescribed him some painkillers and some serious down-time. Sam took him back to the hotel— which we've been forced to extend our stay at— leaving me, Natasha, and Rhodes to wait for the all-clear to visit Tony. Of course they need to make sure he's stable before we can go see him, but my anxiety spikes with each passing minute.

The nurse comes to fetch us after what feels like eons. "He's ready for you. Are you all coming back?"

I turn to my counterparts. "Can I...get a few minutes? Alone?"

I can see the gears turning in their heads, struggling to put a puzzle together without all the pieces. 

"As long as you don't cut off his other leg, too," Rhodes says.

I wince.

"Too early?"

"Try me again in about a year, we'll see if the guilt's worn off by then." I turn to Nat. "I'll text you when I'm done, okay?" 

She nods. I pick up my bouquet from the table— it's smaller than I'd like, the best I could do while staying within a close proximity to the hospital— and follow the nurse through a pair of double doors. I hope the two of them don't think it's strange, buying him flowers. I mean, Nat bought him a stuffed bear, and Rhodes got him a semi-sarcastic helium balloon, so maybe it evens out. I don't have the energy to over-think it. The romantic ambiguity of my bouquet feels like an insignificant thing to worry about within the grand scheme of things.

The nurse leads me down a long, sterile-smelling hallway, stopping at his door and stepping aside to let me enter. 

I open the door slowly and peek my head inside. Tony's lying in bed, staring at the TV and flipping listlessly through the channels, seemingly more interested in the white noise generated by all the half-second snippets than actually finding something to watch. I open the door further. "Tony."

He turns to look at me, and his surprised expression melts into a smile. "Well, well, well. Look who it is. The one and only Captain America, in my hospital room...tell me, did I sign up for the make-a-wish foundation? Is this a subtle way of telling me I'm gonna die after all?"

"Not as long as _I'm_ still alive," I say, sidling into the room fully and closing the door behind me. I pull out the flowers from behind my back—an array of red and yellow roses—and he makes a grabbing motion.

I hand him the bouquet, and he just frowns, sets them down on his bedside table, and reaches up to take me by the lapels. He pulls me down into a sloppy kiss. "I was grabbing for _you_ , dumbass," he says.

I smile into his mouth and plant another kiss, warm and oh-so-needed, before pulling away just enough to get a good look at his face. He's got good color again. His face is flushed, his eyes are bright. I lay a hand across his forehead. Temperate.

"It's not like I have the flu," he says.

"You look good, Tony."

"I feel like overcooked broccoli. I wanna get out of this bed and go home." 

"Soon."

He reaches out again and takes my hand. I perch at the edge of his bed. He doesn't say anything for a while, giving me time to drink him in. I feel like I'm seeing him in his entirety—every breath, every twitch of his finger, every slight contraction of his facial muscles. His hair is a mess, and there's a strand that's sticking straight up. It wiggles when he turns his head. You'd miss it if you weren't paying attention. All I want to do is pay attention.

"What are you looking at?" he asks. "Do I have something in my teeth? Hospital food is terrible, did you know that? I think I'll have spinach between my molars for years to come."

"I'm glad you're alive," I say.

It's like a switch. Suddenly, he's considering me in a different light. "Me too." A silence passes, and he fills it with a deep sigh. "You know, Steve...it's not the first time I was faced with death."

"Yeah, I've noticed."

"It was different this time."

"How so?"

"I had time to think about it. And I came to a...realization...while I was contemplating my certain doom. Something I probably should've realized a long time ago."

"What's that?"

His eyes are glossy, shining under the fluorescent lights. "After all this time...I actually have a future again. I have a future...with you. And I was _so close_ to missing it."

I start to respond, but he continues before I can get a word out. "I know, I know, it's...mushy. I just.. It's more than just dates, it's more than just sleeping together. It always has been, but...I don't know. You give me something to care about beyond myself, and there are times when I feel like I really need that, you know? God, I'm bad at this..."

I reach down and cradle his cheek in my hand. I trace my fingers over his soft and delicately wrinkled skin, savoring the warmth at my fingertips. "Tony—"

"I love you," he blurts out. 

I freeze. It's a reflex, more than anything. My thumb hovers on his cheek. "Wh—what?"

"Sorry, I know it's early..."

"No, no, it's—no, I'm sorry, I just didn't...wow, I didn't expect that," I say, sputtering through the words that refuse to congeal into a single cohesive sentence. "I love you too." And then I'm smiling, and he's smiling, and I think we're both tearing up. At least, I am. I sandwich his face with my other hand and plant another kiss. "I love you," I say when I pull away. Another kiss. "I love you." Another kiss. " _I love you_."

My kisses start traveling away from his lips, onto his chin, his nose, the underside of his jaw, his temple. He laughs and wraps his arms around the small of my waist, tugging me down to lie on top of him. I graze my lips over his neck, his adams apple, the slope of his shoulder, his earlobe. I want to trace all the hills and valleys of his form with my mouth. I want to memorize him with my lips. 

"Jeez, easy tiger," he says breathlessly, while I'm sucking on his collarbone. "And here I was having a whole speech planned and everything."

I pull away and sit up, just enough to look him in the eyes. I'm also out of breath and my cheeks feel unnaturally warm—I wonder if he can tell. "Sorry, I'm just... _so glad_ you're alive."

"It's all thanks to you."

"I wish it had been under better circumstances."

"Eh, I'm pretty much a pro at limb regeneration at this point, I think I'll manage."

I smile. "Pardon me for doubting the great Tony Stark." 

"Yeah..." he says, his voice taking on a wistful tone. He drifts into a moment of contemplation. I don't know if I should shake him out of it. Eventually, he matches my gaze once with pointed clarity. "You know, Steve, I had...another thought."

"What's that?"

His hands trace circles around my hips. "We should tell them."

I push myself fully upright and study his face. There's no guilt, no uncertainty. "Wait, really? You want to?"

He nods.

"We don't need to. I mean it. If you're not comfortable, you know I would never force you." "I know. That's why I came to the decision on my own, while I was being crushed by a concrete pillar. You know, delusions of a dead man, or whatever. I love you, and I want to tell them. If you do, too."

A grin spreads across my lips. "I do."

"Jesus, that sounds like a wedding vow. I know we're moving fast, but not that fast..."

"I take it back. I've suddenly decided we're not dating anymore."

He laughs, and I feel it through the springs of the bed. His hands travel from my hips to wrap around my back, dragging me back onto him. "Sorry, no take-backs."


	11. The Toast

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Tony

Hospital staff try so hard to distract you from the fact that other people have been sick in the same bed as you. They scrub all the surfaces until they sparkle, only to achieve an overwhelming stench of cleaning products, yet this room still isn't my own. The walls are too bare, and there's never anything good on daytime television. Steve's visits help, but they're monitored and limited, and the staff keep saying things like 'you need to rest'. If I never nap again, it'd be too soon.

Nurse Debby is in and out often, checking my vitals, checking my chart, talking my ear off about important things I wish I could tune out of...it's all just noise, anyway. It doesn't help that the painkillers they've been giving me make me too groggy to form coherent thoughts. All I can do is dissociate and stew in my irritation.

I'm daydreaming about assembling the prototype for my new prosthetic when the nurse returns once more, this time with more to offer than aftercare instructions: she comes bearing a wheelchair and a warm smile. "Are you ready, Mr. Stark?"

"I've _been_ ready," I say, flinging back the covers. I accept her help into the seat. I want to propel myself out of here, but this chair isn't built for that, so I just tap my fingers against the armrests as she sets a leisurely pace down the hallways. 

She wheels me into the waiting area, at which point Steve pops up from the couch and melts my heart with one of his...heart melting...smiles. I dunno, my brain too sludgy from my extended bed-riddance to think of anything more poetic. He's poetry in motion, anyway, so it's hard to improve on that.

"He's all yours," Nurse Debby chirps.

"Hell yeah I am."

"Thank you," Steve says, pointedly ignoring my previous statement— though his smirk gives him away. "Have a great day."

Steve hands me a pair of crutches, which I'm eager to accept. Even hobbling feels so freeing. He hovers by my side and lends a hand for support when I need it, and I pretend that I don't until I get to the stairs. Then I'm appreciative of his chivalry.

The California sun is so bright, and so hopeful. 

He turns to me once we're both settled in the car. "How do you feel?"

"Like a burger. Can we stop at McDonalds?"

"Tony, if I could buy you the whole franchise, I would."

"I'll settle for a burger."

Steve's nose scrunches when he laughs. "A burger it is, then."

"It's our last night in the west coast, we should do something tonight," I say.

"Yeah? Any requests?"

"Hey, I already suggested McDonalds. You can take the helm from there, darling."

⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

We end up at the beach on a cheap picnic blanket that crinkles every time we shift our weight, squinting against the setting sun. Steve's fingers are laced with mine. His shoulder is under my temple. "This feels very stereotypical," I say.

"Hm." Steve digs into the paper bag that he's been holding between his knees and produces a packet of fries and a hamburger. He passes the burger to me, which I snatch eagerly, and pops a fry into his mouth. "Is that bad?"

"Nah, I just feel like we need to ride off into the sunset or something to really top it off."

"Damn, if only I had a horse."

I exhale a laugh into my burger, sending a pickle to its sandy doom. "I'm sorry, I cannot imagine you riding a horse."

"What if I was your knight in shining armor?"

"Maybe if you were wearing ass-less chaps."

He pushes my shoulder, just enough to sway me off balance. I grin and shove him in retaliation.

I wish I could bundle up this moment and keep it in my pocket. Steve's eyes shining like the reflections on the ocean, soft music wafting on the breeze from someone else's speakers, junk food dripping grease between us...none of this would come out in a photograph, but it's worthy of a frame.

There used to be days, nights, when I thought that maybe I should've died to the snap. I used to think that maybe we pulled a fast one on the cosmos, and the universe has just been laying in wait to collect my dues. That maybe I didn't deserve to be one of the survivors. That maybe living just wasn't the same anymore.

I think, now, it's time to appreciate the universe's decision to keep me in it. And the people around me that helped make that happen. The man who saw a future in me, too.

Steve's phone buzzes, and he glances at the notification. "Sam says he wants to get everyone together tonight for drinks before we leave."

"Sounds perfect," I say. "I have a toast I'd like to make." 

⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

I have a toast I'm going to try to make. My famous overconfidence is wavering now that I've been presented a window of opportunity, a lull in conversation. I've been lubing up my public speaking skills with cocktails all night, downing as many as Steve will allow me to ingest without inducing another Christmas Party Fiasco (his words, not mine, I think that was some of my finest work). I suppose I'm ready as I'll ever be. 

I use the back of my chair to push myself upright and clink a metal finger against my glass, suddenly facing a a quiet room full of friends with color in their cheeks, studying me with varying levels of amusement and interest. No turning back now. I plaster on a grin and hope it helps mask the nerves that alcohol has only partially smoothed out. "Friends, colleagues, fellow Avengers. I have an announcement to make, and I'm gonna need your undivided attention. But...god, that's a lot of eyes. If a few of you could like, look over there—"

"Tony," Steve says, his tone soft but cautionary. 

Right, the point.

"Well, first order of business...how about that heist? Boy, what a stinker. But hey, celebrate being alive, right? Cheers to that."

They brandish their glasses with a hint of apprehension.

"No one could have expected it," I continue, "But, uh...unexpected things happen all the time, and it's not always bad. Sometimes things happen, and it's confusing at first, but in the end you decide that you still love and support your friend and don't want to hurt his feelings. So you reserve your judgment for when he's turned around and out of earshot. You know?"

The silence is palpable; even Steve doesn't have anything to say, instead blushing into his drink. Scott offers a faint "Woo!" from the back of the bar.

"Yeah, cheers to that, bud." I tip my glass towards him.

"Tony, can you get there?" Rhodey says.

"Okay, picture this: two of your coworkers have a rivalry so strong they nearly throttle each other on multiple occasions, but then they realize they're actually not so different, or rather, they're not different in an incompatible sort of way. Now, imagine now that these two start dating, and they really really care about each other. A lot," I say. "Are you imagining it?"

I'm met with a sea of concerned faces. No affirmatives, no negatives. I can see the gears turning, especially in Natasha; she glances from me, to Steve, back to me, and arches an eyebrow.

"I'm there, man," Scott says. 

"Thanks, means a lot. Okay, anyway. Uh. Good. Now that you have a clear mental image, just one quick...minuscule...tweak, nothing major, but—those two beloved friends and coworkers are me and Steve. Me and Steve are a couple. Cheers!" I raise my glass again and down the rest of it in one gulp, while the room erupts into muddled chaos.

Rhodey's the first to reinstate some semblance of order, gesturing for everyone to pipe down. He takes a moment to study my face. "You're serious," he says. It almost sounds like a question, but   
I know he's already made the determination. 

"I told him to let me handle the announcement," Steve says.

"You don't have the emotional range, honey, I'm sorry. You and I both know it would have sounded like a eulogy."

Rhodey clears his throat. "Well, I can't say I'm not surprised." He's smiling now, too. "But I hope it goes without saying that if you guys are happy, I'm happy too."

"You bastards," Natasha interjects. "I can't believe you managed to keep this from me for this long. The clues were right there, too—I should've known from the second you two started bickering like a married couple."

"To be fair, we did that before we started dating, too," I say.

She laughs. "Well, in any case, I'm throwing my support in the ring. You two are like family to me, of course I'm going to have your back. Like family should. Congratulations, boys."

"That's something I'll drink to," Sam says. "You're gonna have to explain how the hell you got to this point, though. That must be quite the story."

"I still don't know either of you very well but yeah, love and support!" Scott shouts, pumping his fist in the air. I blow him a kiss.

Steve stands and makes his way over to my other side, wrapping an arm around my waist. Partially, I'm sure, because I've begun to wobble, though the gentle squeeze tells me it's also more than that. It's an acknowledgment. Our own personal celebration.

He turns to the audience and extends his glass. "Well, I'd like to make a toast, as well. To all of our wonderful friends, and the gift of warmth, patience, and kindness they've given us on this day. We are truly grateful."

Everyone raises their glasses, and the room is filled with a chorus of overwhelming positivity. It chokes me up a little bit, looking out at a crowd of friends and knowing, for certain now, that they'll refuse to leave my side for anything. And then Steve sets his glass down and grabs me by the chin, pulling me into a kiss.

"How's that for emotional range?" Steve says, just to me.

"It's gonna take a while to get used to that," Natasha says, coming over to give Steve an affirming pat on the shoulder. She smiles at me. "You guys are cute together."

And then they're all gravitating around us, offering pats on the back and one-armed hugs. Scott gives me and Steve high-fives. Steve's a little over-eager, leaving Scott's palm tomato red.

Rhodey nudges me gently. "So, Steve, you gonna help keep this one in line?" 

"I dunno, Rhodes. I think that's asking a bit much of me," Steve says through a smirk mostly aimed at me.

"Hey, I'm right here." I pick up my glass and inspect the pointed lack of alcohol. "Anyone up for another round, on me?"

"I'm not gonna pass that up," Nat says.

The next hour is a bubbly blur of laughter, conversation, clinking glasses. An unexpected yet appreciated celebration. They have a lot of questions— "So, who initiated it?" "He kissed me first." "Okay, but you were totally coming onto me." "Was I? I can't recall." And the like. They seem genuinely curious how we've been able to make it work. Steve says that it's been surprisingly easy, and I question his use of the word "surprisingly." 

Even though the night is going much better than I could have ever imagined, there's something eating away at the back of my brain. Festering. I think maybe I should table it for another day, until I look at Steve—bright eyes, arm wrapped around my shoulder, happy and confident— and I remember wanting to snap off a piece of that confidence and keep it for myself. I wonder if now could be that moment.

I clear my throat. "You know, there's...something else I should probably add to my toast. If you'll humor me."

Everyone turns back to me.

I lock eyes with Steve, who has raised an eyebrow with unspoken but mutually understood curiosity. "I'm hanging up the suit for a while." I hold up a hand as the rest of them start preparing their protests. "Not just because of the leg situation. And I don't know for how long, so don't ask. Any further questions, or should we clink glasses and move along with our night?" 

The table falls into the second stunned silence of the night.

"Tony, I know how rough this last mission was on you, but—" Nat starts.

"You can't just drop a bomb like that, man, we need you," Sam says. "Who's gonna fill your shoes when you're gone?"

"First off, is that an intentional joke? I only have the one shoe and it wouldn't fit any of you assholes, so don't even think about it. And besides, I already told you, it's not about the mission. I just have some... personal battles that I think I'd like to win, first." I turn back to Steve. 

"Different priorities."

He offers a wistful smile and squeezes my shoulder. "Whatever you need, Tony."

"Do you think you'll ever get back out there?" Rhodey asks.

"Hell if I know. Maybe I should get Strange to read my future. He can do that, right?"

Nat reaches over to clasp my hand. "We'll miss you, Tony."

"Please, I'm not gonna give you the luxury of missing me. I'm moving back into Avenger Tower. Effective...soon, I don't know. Forgive me for not smoothing out the details, I just came up with it on the spot. Impressive, no?"

The table erupts again. Rhodey cradles his forehead in his hands. "If you keep dropping bombs like this, Tony, I'm gonna need you to buy a round of Aspirin instead."

⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

It's some ungodly hour in the morning when our plane finally touches down on familiar, snow-frosted territory. Steve chauffeurs me back to my place, with the very unconvincing intention of dropping me off, getting me settled, and taking his car the rest of the way to his apartment. I stand in the doorway and wait for him to process the indisputable fact that he's not leaving my house tonight.

He tries to pass me the backpack filled with borrowed items and dollar-store toiletries, and I just push it back into his hands. "Keep em. You can huff my gym shorts if you get lonely."

"I hate you."

"Seriously, though, I don't care if you keep that stuff."

"Okay." He slings it over his shoulder and leans in for a kiss, which I eagerly accept. I'm only using one of my crutches, so I allow him to be my anchor, pushing against his broad chest and running my fingers through his hair. I gather it at the crown of his head and give a gentle tug.

He makes a low, quiet noise. Maybe he says something, but I don't hear it, I just feel the movements of his lips against mine.

He puts a hand on my shoulder and creates some space between us. "It's late," he says. "I should probably..."

"Stay over? Go home in the morning? Good idea, wish I had thought of it."

A smile pulls up the corners of his lips, slowly, messily—like he's too tired to properly control the motor functions in his face. "Read my mind."

⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅⋅☆⋅

I nestle my face into his neck. He smells like hotel soap still, something woody and fresh, and I can feel a tiny bit of stubble growing in on the underside of his chin. I wrap my arm around his bare chest and he, in turn, pulls me tighter, before his muscles relax around me once more. He's fading into sleep, I can tell. His whole body is relaxing. His breathing is regulating. It tickles the top of my head. 

"I love you," I whisper.

"I love you too," he mumbles. I almost can't hear it.

I run my fingers along his collarbone. He shivers under my touch.

"Steve."

"Mhm."

"I know I sprung everything on you, and everyone, at once."

"You're full of surprises."

"Outside of what the Avengers think, just between you and me..."

"Yeah?"

"Do you think I made the right decision?"

He turns his head a little. I think he's trying to look at me. "That's not for me to decide. But I'm with you, no matter what you choose to do." He yawns mid-sentence and flops a limp hand onto my face. "No matter where you go."

"So what you're saying is, you're a freeloader."

"You're the one that invited me inside."

"Damn, it always comes back to that, huh?"

Steve yawns again, lifting my whole upper body with his heaving chest. I think he tries to say something through it. He ends up trailing off. I let the silence linger for a while, listening instead to his rhythmic heartbeat.

"Steve?" I whisper.

No response.

I snuggle closer into him and close my own eyes, allowing a good-nights-sleep to claim a second victim.

I don't remember my dreams.

But they leave me with an ever-present sense of hope. 


	12. The Post-Credit Scenes

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

_Steve_

**Six months later**

I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to fully predict Tony's next move, though I can say with decent certainty that I've gotten better at rolling with the punches. He has a way of keeping me on my toes. (Exhibit A: the signed copy of The Life of Iron Man he gift-wrapped and hand-delivered to me the other day. It's now sitting on my coffee table as promised.)

I've been staying with him for a while as his leg heals and he constructs a workable prosthetic. I tried to tell him that rest should be his first priority, not that it means much to him; I can't keep him lying down for any length of time unless I crawl in bed with him. For the sake of both of our productive adult lives, I've taken to lending a hand in his workshop. Passing him tools, angling the light, kissing the back of his neck when he hunches over something tiny...he seems to welcome the help as well as my distractions.

It took a few prototypes for Tony to settle on a design that he's satisfied with—a fleeting sentiment, anyway— and for the swelling to go down enough for him to start constructing a more long-term model. He's nearly done, save a little tightness in the knee joint that puts some extra spring in his step, literally and metaphorically. He revels in the extra mobility regardless.

As for myself, when I'm not hovering around his station, I fill the time by helping him pack. I learned quickly that out of the two of us, I'm the only one that packs with any semblance of organization, so I took on the role of head supervisor. Helping him cull, organize, fold...and scolding him when he throws a bunch of junk into a box without batting an eye.

It works. We work. 

Somehow it's still surreal. Especially when it finally comes time to start moving things into the tower; Happy's been managing it in Tony's absence, so it looks largely the same as it did last time I saw it, though I can't say I ever felt more welcome than I do now as I'm helping my boyfriend rearrange his furniture.

"How does it feel?" I ask, perching on the arm of his leather couch. 

Tony's spinning in place, arms outstretched, drinking in the familiar decor. He nods his approval once he completes a full rotation. "Not bad, not bad. A little empty, but we can take care of that pretty easily, no?"

I raise an eyebrow. "'We', huh?"

"Hey, you didn't think you could get out of unpacking, did you?"

I wrap my arms around his waist and tug him close. "Of course not. You'd never unpack anything if I didn't oversee it."

"See? You know me so well."

I laugh and plant a couple kisses in quick succession—first on his lips, and then a couple on his cheek and neck for good measure. He hums and rakes his blunt fingernails through my hair, which is something he's taken a liking to doing lately. He likes that it's grown out a bit in the last few months, and seems personally offended if I mention my need for a trim.

I draw back to look at his face. For the first time in quite a while, he seems relaxed. At peace. Radiating calm satisfaction. "What's next on the docket?"

"Takeout: a reward for a hard day's work. I was thinking _Antones_?"

" _Antones_ doesn't do takeout."

"Oh, what a shame. Guess we'll have to go out for a nice sit-down dinner, then."

"Mhm, truly disappointing."

He considers me for a long moment. Something has changed in his expression, and I can't pinpoint it; he seems absorbed in his thoughts. I tilt my head at him. "Something on your mind, Tones?"

"Oh, it's nothing. I was just thinking about how vast this tower is, and how tiny your apartment is..."

"Is that your backhanded way of asking me to move in?"

He doesn't answer right away, instead letting his hands travel from my hair down to my chest and hips, eventually finding their way to the small of my back. He offers a tentative smile. "Is it bad if it is?"

"Tony—"

"You don't have to give me your answer right away. Just tell me you'll think about it, okay?"

I shake my head and pull him into a lingering kiss, deep and insistent. I wish I could express the way he makes me feel. The way he sets my insides ablaze every time he threatens to rip me further from everything I've ever known or thought to be true. 

I wish I could express just how happy it makes me.

His hands travel under my shirt, and the cold metal sends shivers up my spine. I rest my forehead against his. "I'll think about it."

"That's all I ask."

A moment of silence lapses between us, anything but tense. It feels comfortable. Worn-in.   
"What are you gonna do after things are all settled down?" I ask.

"Oh, Steve. You should know by now that things are never 'settled down' with me."

"I've noticed."

"Whatever the hell I want to, I suppose." He runs his fingers in small lines up and down my back. "Move in or not...I hope you'll be there for that. Whatever it is."

He knows how to draw out my smile. The warmth spreads through my core, permeating every fiber of my being. "Tony Stark, I wouldn't miss it for the world."

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

_Tony_

**2 more months later**

"Come in, come in."

Peter's eyes are wide as saucers as he steps into my living room. Well, stumbles; the floor is strewn with cardboard boxes that Steve has been pressuring me to unpack, and it's created a maze of sorts by the elevator. I'm waiting until he gets fed up enough to do it himself, which works up until I have to entertain guests. Though Pete's soaking up the room like it might as well be a museum, so I suppose he doesn't mind the clutter.

I step around a loose pile of hardcover books and gesture for Peter to take a seat at the bar.   
"Oh, I'm— I can't drink, Mr. Stark," he says. It's painfully sincere. He's worrying the strap of his backpack, which is slung across his chest like a cross-body bag, and he's having trouble meeting my eyes. 

I sigh and pull up a barstool for myself. "The bar is a metaphor, Mr. Parker, sit your butt down."

"Yes sir." He scrambles to perch on the stool across from me. His backpack is heavy enough to throw him off balance, so he swings it around to cradle it in his lap.

"You can...put that down, if you want to."

"No, I'll hold it, it's fine."

"You're sure?"

He nods with enough vigor to bounce a loose lock of hair directly into his eye. I wait until he's stopped fussing with it to speak again. 

"Listen, Pete, I'm sure the news has reached you already..."

"Are you really not gonna be Iron Man anymore?" he blurts, immediately shrinking back from the bluntness of his own words. His face flushes. "Sorry, Mr. Stark. I just...I find it hard to believe."

Youthful impatience...can't say I've never experienced it before. I clear my throat and straighten in my seat. "As you should. Because that's not exactly the case. This— " I gesture from my head to my toes, "Is Iron Man. Not this." At that, I tap the arc reactor on my chest. "I'm just...taking a break. Hanging up the suit for a while. That's all."

He nods, with less vigor this time, but certainly not less sincerity.

"Of course, this leaves me with some extra time on my hands," I continue. "I was thinking...it might not hurt to impart some of my endless wisdom on the...next generation."

I didn't know his eyes could get any wider than they already were. I was wrong. "Mr Stark—"

"You're an Avenger now, Pete, whether you feel ready for it or not. You've done and seen things that a kid your age should never be exposed to and yet you've shown nothing but potential." I grasp his shoulder and give him a gentle shake. "I would be doing a disservice if I didn't ensure that you're ready to tap into that potential the next time you need to. Do you understand?"

He's smiling now. Only slightly, but the twitch at the corners of his mouth tell me that he's holding himself back from beaming. "I think so, sir."

"Good. Because your first lesson is..." I squeeze his shoulder and lean in slightly, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial tone, "There's always a next time."


End file.
